Lizzington Ficlets: Bundles of Teasing Words
by Ely Georgieva
Summary: Wherein Yours Truly will be posting ficlets for her own narcissistic pleasure. Length will vary.
1. He's Livid

Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Blacklist' or its characters. They cooperate willingly.

He was taking frequent, long sips from his drink, leaving himself no time to fully appreciate the exquisite whiskey Dembe had managed to source for him.

In truth, nothing exquisite could ever thrive on such quick, rough exploitation. Because these were sips meant to extinguish anger; to cure the bitter aftertaste of fear. He was utterly exhausted. Her recklessness was too taxing for him and he wanted to physically assault her for not appreciating her own life more.

He felt her arms embracing his neck from behind the sofa he'd been sitting on that entire afternoon and his anger grew.

"I was an idiot," she whispered and kissed his cheek, "I'm sorry."


	2. She Tugs

She opened the front door for him and he entered the hallway, no formalities exchanged. His heavy breathing followed suit. So did his grumbling. He shed off his ruined Armani shirt in front of Elizabeth, right in her brand-new living room, then proceeded to assess the damaged fabric. "A shame," he muttered, tossing the item on the ground. She kept staring, not caring to feign shame; not worrying about the notion of privacy. She liked to think that ship had sailed, with its anchor forever lost somewhere dark and deep.

His torso was bleeding; no fatal wounds in sight, just ones that would cause temporary discomfort. He'd lost weight, she thought, somewhat regretfully, but was delighted by the consistency in chest hair. Liz stood up, grabbed his hand gently and tugged; he was quick to follow.

"You interrupted my evening routine when you showed up, you know. The way I see it, we are left with no other choice but to take a bath together," she informed. He chuckled, then winced.


	3. She's Bruised

Her body hurt in a way that implied nasty bruising. She wished she could free herself of her beaten-up body and let it heal without her input. But she was stuck with her own fragility and it could not be amputated from the wholeness of her.

Thus, she decided a bath or even a quick, warm shower would be a far more realistic option.

She took her clothes off in front of him; all of them. He helped her remove her shoes and socks. She had been shocked when he'd merely peeled off his ruined shirt in front of her a few weeks ago, without unnecessary pleasantries. Tonight, he was far too concerned to be bashful and utterly willing to provide every form of aid she'd ask for.

"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm going to need you to give me a bath," she told him.

He was naked before she had the chance to turn around and face him.


	4. They Wait

"I struggle to see how this form of torture benefits me," he huffed unhappily after Elizabeth shattered his hopes for consummating their newly-found chemistry for the seventh time that week. Truthfully, he'd been huffing rather frequently lately. Turns out, recovering from a bullet in the right lung wasn't pretty, and the heroic nuances of the event were ebbing off staggeringly quickly. His life had succumbed to a routine that served to remind him of his 55 years on this Earth, and what physical aging meant.

"Not dying due to a severe lack of oxygen would benefit you more than you know, Reddington," Elizabeth smirked before entering his bathroom and closing the door.

Having to avoid sexual release as a result of almost dying was a cruel aftermath, Lizzie thought as she brushed her teeth. It seemed to her that one near-death experience should be the end of the man's suffering, not a reason for added frustration.

Focusing on how miserable Reddington was distracted her from her own dissatisfaction with his temporary physical limitations, so she embraced every rush of altruism readily. At the end of the day, it was a matter of fourteen torturous days before he'd be allowed sexual encounters again.

She came in the shower. Just once, she justified

She did make it out of the bathroom. Red didn't bother asking unnecessary questions. She got dressed in a rush, rambling about work in the process. He smiled and listened.

"Two more weeks," she announced happily and leaned in to kiss his mouth.


	5. He Strikes

The distinctive sound of an angry palm against human flesh was loud and unmistakable.

There was a quiet yelp, then silence.

The room they found themselves in was mostly empty and it accommodated the sound produced by the physical impact, doing its force justice.

It was a slap so ferocious it made his palm sting.


	6. She's Dying

Author's Note: A personal favorite. And they said parents should never have a favorite child...

"You loved her," Elizabeth stated calmly, looking at the heavenly photograph of her younger self and Katerina Rostova swinging together into a happy oblivion. She felt there was no need to pose a question and wait for his roundabout answer. Still, she wanted to have his confirmation; a beheading with a clean, precise cut.

And confirm he did, "Yes." A merciful beheading, and a swift one, too. But there was a twisted catch with metaphorical deaths - one doesn't truly perish. And now she had to live with this incurable sickness - before her, there was her mother. Katerina had been intimate with Reddington when Elizabeth was a clueless toddler. The man she wanted had fucked her mother more than once. It must've been tremendous, she assumed. She wanted to put an end to this harmful spiral but found herself curious in the most twisted of ways.

There was another catch with metaphorical dying - one could die more than once. She knew she'd be dying every time she thought of Reddington climaxing inside her mother.

"Lizzie, this was a lifetime ago," he offered in an attempt to save her from drowning in the acid that was this predicament. "You… You're something else, in the best way possible."

"I need to process this. I need to find a healthy way to live with this," she explained rationally and straightened her trench coat.

"Don't leave like this, Lizzie." He implored her. He wanted for the two of them to be wrapped in the secretive cocoon of his secretive apartment. It was no use.

"I'll call you tomorrow, Red."

She was going to spend her day dying a thousand metaphorical deaths.


	7. He Steals Her Thunder

She was supposed to receive praise for her good work at the end of that excruciating day. The sweat staining her blouse would have been worth it then.

He, on the other hand, was furious, and the sliver of happiness she was in for appeared to be in his way. So, he kicked the possibility for it to the curb and stormed into Cooper's office.

"We had a deal, Harold," she heard him announce. Cooper fired something right back. They engaged in an argument she had no interest in witnessing, so she made herself leave the post-office.

Washing the sweat off of her body was the kind of praise she could provide herself.

"It's 3 A.M., you fucker," she managed. He laughed it off.

"Waiting for a pat on the head earlier in Cooper's office, weren't you?" He was joking, she knew.

Ending the call was an option. Or, she could succumb to what was becoming a routine - letting him talk and allowing her fingers to relieve the recurring ache he was causing.

Having a routine never killed anyone.

"You do know you stole my thunder, right? He called me in to congratulate me on being a capable professional. You came in and wrecked it like you always do," her breathing had changed. He didn't dare laugh again.

"Some would say the concept of stealing one's thunder expires at the end of puberty," he offered no remorse.

"Fuck you, Reddington." Trouble was, she didn't hang up. She was waiting for her retribution and was sacrificing her integrity for it.

It took him a few seconds before he sensed the line never went dead. He would take his chances tonight.

"Hold that thought, Lizzie."

He did hang up. She stopped her fingers from finishing what she'd started.

She'd wait.


	8. She Croons

Sensuality had no place in neglected motel rooms. It required beauty and fresh air. It demanded delectable scents and mesmerizing clothing. Sensuality would never settle for mediocrity and dingy spaces. Not that Elizabeth knew much about it. In truth, she had always been neglectful towards it. She thought she couldn't possibly live up something so special. She was was convinced in her inability to provide it with everything it needed to sustain itself.

Surprisingly, Liz was starting to realize sensuality could be a fool too, and very easy to please. It was happily curled around Reddington's sleeping form in his tiny bed, next to hers. Evidently, all sensuality needed that night someone beguiling enough to accommodate it. And Reddington was nothing if not hospitable.

It was in that moment that Lizzie decided if sensuality could be stupid, so could she. So, she got out of her uncomfortable, dingy bed and headed over to his. He stirred as soon as she lifted his pathetic duvet, but she laid next to him anyway. Reddington woke up with a start as soon as she nestled her head on his stomach. He attempted to get up, but she was quick to stop him.

"Lizzie, are you alright?" he asked concerned.

"I'm okay, Red," she responded calmly and let her hand roam to the front of his boxers.

Unnecessarily, he asked her what she was doing, attempted to stop her ministrations, but she was too high on everything he was exuding and refused to come to her senses.

"I want you to relax," she crooned and kissed his chest through his T-shirt. "You've been on edge for weeks now," she continued as she finally wrapped her hand around his hard cock and started to stroke him. Her beautiful head on his stomach, fully relaxed. He grunted, unashamed.

She was going to get him off with something as simple as a hand-job.

He was letting her.

Sensuality was no fool.


	9. She's Tenacious: Part 1

"You're actually avoiding me," she accused him pathetically, two mornings after they'd slept together for the first time. It was thoroughly satisfying and far from the conventional acrobatics some would associate with great sex. But it _was_ great, in her book and his, she believed. Her conclusion was supported by his sweet groans and forceful thrusts, and by the three times they'd done it that night. He'd come inside of her every single time and _had stayed inside_ for long minutes after.

But he got dressed too quickly the following morning while she was pretending to be asleep. He didn't even lean down to kiss her worried head before he quietly left her home. Her uncertainty flared like an inflammation, infecting every cell of her confidence in their new relationship.

"Contrary to our history so far, I do happen to have commitments that do not include you, Lizzie," he reasoned, looking at some papers. His composed form was perched on a bar stool in a relatively bare apartment.

"Do you regret what happened two nights ago?" she wasn't wasting any time at all. She wanted clarity as much as she wanted him.

"Oh, I regret nothing that happened during that night," he looked up from the pieces of paper he'd been holding and smiled a smile she recognized all too well. He was trying to appear indifferent. What angered her, she recognized, was how easily he thought she'd give up. He wasn't being genuine and she felt like choking the pretense out of him. She needed the real him to live and breathe.

"You think I'll buy this?" she questioned. Her scared little heart was about to leap out of her body.

Then, Dembe came in. It was urgent, he'd said. Something about the three of them being needed at the Post Office.

"We're not done," she promised Reddington lamely after he'd gotten up from the bar stool.

He barely looked at her.

But he didn't dare smile again, and his shoulders were slumped and sad.

She forced herself to move; her resolve followed suit.


	10. She's Tenacious: Part 2

Author's Note: Chapter 9 ends like so.

"Don't make me be the girl who pesters you," Elizabeth pleaded with what she hoped was, at least, an ounce of dignity. Granted, it was a feeble kind of hope.

She couldn't reconcile with the possibility of becoming an unwanted woman. Surely, Reddington couldn't be so cruel - because destroying the pedestal he had put her on would have her soul crippled. He should know that.

He was seated in an armchair, looking at her with worried eyes. She'd refused to sit down.

Silly girl, as if having the advantage of a greater height would help.

"It's been a terribly long day, Lizzie, and a stressful one. Can we po-,"

"No, _I_ can't," a forceful rejection of his unfinished attempt to postpone their conversation. "You can't dismiss what happened between us. And it wasn't a mistake or an accident," she warned. "Falling on your face is a mistake. What we did was something we both wanted."

"I have nothing to say to you tonight, Lizzie. See yourself out," he gave her a look that devastated her.

Her dignity screamed at her, but her desire for him was making her deaf and stupid.

And so she acted stupidly. Felt herself walking towards him. She straddled his lap swiftly in order to prevent his rationality from taking over.

She moved up and down, without shame.

"Elizabeth, that's enough," he sounded dangerous and right on the brink of eruption. Good.

"We had sex three times less than three days ago. I know what "enough" looks like." More friction.

He grew hard.

"I know what "enough" feels like," she informed. She wasn't playing fair. She pressed herself against him hard and stayed there. Kissing him on the mouth the way she did wasn't fair.

So, he decided not playing fair wasn't beneath him after all. He kissed back. Bit her mouth hard. Lifted his hips to meet her persistence.

"There's never "enough" with you," he told her and inserted his hand inside her pants.

He came inside her again that night.


	11. He's Perfect

"You're being self-conscious. Why?" she was convinced in her estimation. And she wanted all boundaries between them gone, gone for good. His insecurities about his aging body confused her tired, lovesick head. He was always comfortable with his physique, so why was he rushing to put his clothes back on?

"Why, someone's analytical early in the morning," he smiled, buttoning up his expensive shirt that smelled of Heaven and sin altogether.

"So, you _are_ self-conscious," she concluded in a humorous triumph. He smiled and reached for the tie he'd laid out on her bed. She was quicker, though, and her curiosity was making her adventurous. She snatched the tie before he could grab it, and tossed on the floor. "Tell me why," she challenged.

"We're going to be late, Elizabeth. Agent Navabi tells me we have quite the lead, and I'd rather-," she kissed his mouth before he could continue justifying his procrastination of the truth and made sure to grab the sides of his beautiful, tired face. Whatever nudging he needed in order to be truthful, she was willing to provide.

"You're perfect." A kiss on the right side of his neck. "And attractive," never one to neglect the left side of his neck, this Elizabeth. "And I want you to stop being stupid and accept that I want you, the way you are now." A conclusion in the form of a firm kiss.

"We can talk about it in the evening," he said, summoning her fragile, naked body in his arms, forcing her to kneel on the bed. "I promise." Always one to reassure.

"Well, that was easier than expected," she marveled and gave his forehead a final kiss before heading to the bathroom.

He felt lighter.


	12. She's Not Sober

"I'm positively drunk," she announced merrily and kissed his soft chest.

They were in bed together, and it was wonderful and so warm. Sleep was reeling her in, but his naked body was a good reason to fight her exhaustion. A tough battle for a worthy cause. She'd gotten drunk before his very eyes, in _his_ study, at _his_ apartment.

She was adamant about the two of them getting naked before bed.

"I'd rather seduce you when you're sober, Lizzie. I prefer a challenge," he informed humorously, watching her undress. It took her some time. But his comment caught her attention, right when she was pulling at her right sock, so she raised an eyebrow at him, her head swimming.

"You think it'll be easy to seduce me just because I'm drunk?" her question an apparent dare. Her sock came off too, and she felt stupidly proud.

"No, it'll be easy because you're almost naked already." Always so quick-witted. But he was staring at her panties. She concluded this was another win, and proceeded to move her underwear down her legs.

"We're not having sex tonight, Elizabeth," he announced. She knew there was no use. But she did ask him to get naked and join her.

She'd said "please," after all.

So, they found themselves naked and oddly comfortable, in spite of his painful erection between her thighs, and her wetness that was smearing against the fine hairs of his abdomen.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered and kissed her eyelids.

Not the eyelids, she thought. He'd kissed them closed, and she stood no chance against sleep now.

Sleep won a second later.


	13. He's Languid

Her conscience was trying its hardest to reconnect with her hypnotized mind, but it was no use. She knew invading his privacy like that was ugly and unethical. It was disrespectful and shameful. And _so_ pathetic. But the rarity of what she was witnessing was such a feast, she couldn't deprive herself of it.

Elizabeth was staring mesmerized, as his hand kept gliding over himself languidly; the streetlights reflecting on that damned Rolex. This was no mundane act of releasing tension, she could tell. He was enjoying this.

His soft groans and ragged breathing inspired her to evoke the same sounds out of him one day. One day _soon._

He was stroking the head of his cock, spreading his own moisture down what looked like a very generous shaft.

His movements sped up naturally and he came, moaning beautifully. So wonderfully, it made her gasp.

Trouble was, gasps were audible in the dark and quiet.

She knew he'd sensed her presence the moment he stopped breathing.

A moment later, he faced her.

She wanted to die a quick death.


	14. He's Embarrassed

Author's Note: Chapter 13 continues like so.

He was genuinely shocked to see her at his bedroom door. He did nothing to conceal it. His swagger stood no chance at surviving the merciless assaults of true shame. Elizabeth stared at him stupidly, and in sheer horror. The least she knew she could do was look away. Better yet, she could've put her feet to good use and get away from him. He deserved to be given the chance to compose himself with dignity.

"Red, I'm so sorry," she managed instead. She wasn't sorry. Seeing him pleasure himself was magnificent. He was a man, a sexual being with desires that made his beautiful cock strain and twitch.

Her voice seemed to unleash his reflexes. Suddenly, he stood up and she was faced with his back. She could still see the force with which he zipped up his pants. He was angry, so angry for not being more alert, more careful. He couldn't recall the last time he felt so mortified. He punished his shirt for his anger and tucked it inside his pants with such aggressive force, it made Liz wince.

He tried to compose his ragged, furious breathing and faced her once more.

"Red, please say something. Please, I'm sorry," she was trying her luck and she knew it. But she didn't want him to have time to estimate the damage and find a reasonable way out. She needed him to communicate his anger and frustration right there and then before he could close himself off and leave her stranded and lovesick.

He took a few steps towards her but kept his distance. She recognised he was truly livid. So, she prepared herself for whatever words he was going to strike her with and forgave him in advance.

"You know, Elizabeth, I could've watched your husband screw you every single time you two had sex. I still have the footage, actually," he raised his eyebrows and smiled viciously like he always did when he knew his opponent stood no chance against him. "I never did," he told her bluntly. "You had no right," he breathed out and her entire being crumbled.

"Red-,"

"See yourself out. I don't want to see you in the morning," he walked past her, leaving her rooted to the spot and in agony.


	15. He Smiles

Author's Note: Chapters 13, 14 and 15 have decided to shake hands and call it a day.

To him, words have always been messengers, stamped with purpose and forever void of incoherence. He played with them often, and he played with them gracefully. He would summon them when he was in need of an armor, and he'd resort to them when he wished to show kindness. Quantity and quality were united in a successful marriage inside his sharp mind and their offspring were the words he so loved.

So, when he stopped talking to her altogether, she knew it was time to act. To make a fool of herself. Truly, anything. She wasn't about to let him discard his love for her. It was hers to keep.

"You haven't spoken to me in two days. We're working together, aren't we? We need to be functional at work," she tried one evening when an opportunity for discussion presented itself inside a surveillance van at the end of a successful mission.

"If you're so insistent on carrying out a DIY therapy session, why don't you _share_ how comical it was to observe an old man getting himself off?" there they were, his words. Summoned to execute her once and for all.

He'd assumed she thought of him as pathetic, old and perverted. She did not. He needed to know.

"I shouldn't have done what I did. I thought about giving you your privacy, but I decided to stay put and watch," the truth _could be_ her salvation if it didn't finish what his words had started.

He looked at her incredulously, still unaware where she was headed. She recognized it'd never occurred to him he could be an object of her desire, the silly man.

"I stayed because I wanted to watch you. Because I want you. How can you not see it?" she accused him. He looked so surprised, the fool. His cheek was hard at work in between his teeth. She felt so hopeful then, and so very light.

She was going to give him his privacy this time, at least.

The van door slid open and she was out, out of the nightmare she'd caused.

"If anything, you're middle-aged," she announced with cheer.

He _smiled._


	16. He's Tired

They hadn't had a fight in what felt like light years. They hadn't even had a _disagreement._ But they _always_ disagreed, her pessimistic mind protested. It was how they were organically - very different in almost every aspect of their beings. She'd accepted it.

But there they were - resolving one case after another with relative ease. He'd make jokes. She'd laugh with genuine glee. He'd ask her out for drinks after particularly long days at the post office and she'd say yes. Quickly and with no reservations. His touches were calculated and careful; a pat on her shoulder on Tuesday. A hand on her lower back guiding her to a restaurant of his choice the following Friday.

But the utopia they'd submerged themselves in was too comforting to be long lasting. Comfort was a just an anesthesia of the shittiest kind; the kind that made the pain worse after.

She'd been preparing herself for the inevitable downfall such harmony was sure to bring.

It was 11 p.m. on Saturday, but she couldn't wait. She arrived at his safe house to give him an update on the case they were working on. The update _could be_ communicated just as efficiently over the phone, she knew. He'd realize it too, and she was comfortable with the prospect.

Dembe greeted her at the door and motioned for Reddington's bedroom in understanding.

She didn't bother herself with needless reasonings as to why she was so mesmerized by the sight of Reddington undressing, not in preparation for anything remotely sexual, but purely because he was craving the basic pleasure of sleep. It was unlike him, not to realize there was someone at the door of his room.

So, she kept watching.

His watch went first.

Then the shirt.

She knocked on the door frame right after he unbuckled his belt...

TBC


	17. She Pays Him a Visit

Author's Note: Chapter 16 continues (and ends) like so.

"Took you long enough to announce yourself," he told her and dropped his belt on the bed, next to an expensive suitcase. His head was turned to where she stood, right at the doorstep of his current bedroom. He didn't allow the rest of his body to visibly acknowledge her. But his eyes were kind and cheerful; they were inviting her confidence to come out and live a little. She wanted to be a grown up, a woman. One to not run away in bashfulness and fear of rejection.

"You could've turned around earlier," she pointed out and observed his fluid movements as he opened the suitcase and retrieved a white T-shirt, impeccably crisp in color. He put it on, but his movements didn't appear hurried. She wanted to believe this was a manifestation of how little he was bothered by the clear view she had of his scars. She'd been the one to establish countless boundaries between them, yet every time he'd expressed a desire to keep certain things private, she felt as though he wasn't quite willing to give her all of him.

"Why are you here tonight, Lizzie?" he asked calmly. He was facing her fully now. His arms folded in front of his broad chest. It was not that he was shooing her away. She was not _unwanted_. But she wasn't invited inside his temporary sanctuary either. Playing it safe was a two-way street, it would seem.

"I have an update on the case," she fought the persistent timidness in her chest as hard as she could; she did. But the intensity of his being was distracting her from being brave.

A raised brow; her silly, shallow cover was blown.

"I thought younger people used their cell phones for everything these days," he remained humorous and good-natured. She knew her explanation was never going to cut it, but it felt unnecessary to try and come up with an elaborate excuse to seek his closeness. She knew it from the moment she parked her car in front of the ostentatious building that was housing his apartment for the night.

"Should I go home and call to tell you I'd locked my bedroom door then?" she challenged.

"You do that, sweetheart," he confirmed, watching her carefully as she stepped inside his bedroom and locked the door.

"I'll do it in the morning then. For the peace of your aging mind," her smile revealed her fabulous teeth for the first time that evening.

She announced herself the proud owner of that crisp white T-shirt a few blissful hours later.


	18. She Has a Key

Elizabeth found herself clutching the key he gave her that same morning, relishing in the happy bounce in her step. He'd given her a key to _that_ apartment - the secretive one; the one that housed a cat, along with answers she sometimes felt she was better off not receiving.

"You can come here whenever you want. Always. Even when I'm not in the country. To feed the feline, you know", he reassured her with no sugarcoating at all. But he did add a silent kiss on her right eyelid. He didn't neglect the left one either.

The warmth of being welcomed into his _home_ kept her mind cozy all day. She was experiencing the kind of happiness that spread through her entire body, from her dizzy head to her excited belly and beyond, infecting her whole. It was as dangerous as an aggressive disease that didn't give the sufferer much time to counterattack. She wouldn't counterattack - she'd die a happy woman, eaten alive by how much she loved him.

It worried her, how he would be after their first night together. She was prepared for a ferocious fight with his perpetual desire to protect her from harm, himself included. The key was an unexpected turn of events. For the first time in years, happiness wasn't trying its mightiest to escape from her; she didn't need to chase it. It was there like a docile dog, always willing to please. Happiness could be _loyal,_ just like Red.

The closer she got to his apartment, the more hurried she became. It was as if this piece of property was a mythical portal, opened for mere seconds only. What if she didn't pass through it timely enough? She scolded herself for being stupid and unreasonable. Her happiness was sticking around, this time, and so was the apartment with the beautiful light streaming through the living-room windows.

She didn't bother to be quiet - he was awake, she was sure. He was waiting for her like he always did.

She headed to his bedroom when she didn't find him on the sofa.

Her mouth formed an "O", perfect in its genuine surprise the moment she opened the bedroom door.

TBC


	19. He's Sleeping

Never in her life had she wanted to kick herself harder than she did in that moment. Devastatingly, her exuberance did not go hand in hand with gracefulness. Evidently, the two couldn't reside in her body at the same time.

She'd opened the door forcefully, and what was done was done. It produced a noise. Just like in any traditional sitcom, it hit a chair beside the nearby wall in one soul-crushing swing before she could prevent the powerful impact. The all-too-familiar drill of terrible luck.

He had been sleeping. Not snoozing lightly, like he often did. The man had been sleeping as sweetly as a newborn human who'd just fought his way into the world.

His head snapped from his pillow straight away. The muscles in his face were adjusting in the transition between complete relaxation and wakefulness.

"This better be important," he grumbled, relieved, yet grumpy when he realized it was her. His head returned back to his pillow almost immediately.

She considered apologizing but decided against it.

She kept her underwear on and walked the few steps towards his bed as silently as she possibly could. As if it was any use.

She joined him in _his_ bed, the one he'd chosen the mattress for. And the bedding, and the pillows.

"You know, for such a slender woman, you're annoyingly loud," he informed her without opening his eyes. He was laying on his left side, and his chest looked inviting and soft. She moved her body towards him until her belly made a silent impact with his. Her arm proceeded to wrap itself around his middle and her head was met with the fine hair of his chest and his right nipple.

"So, I woke you up, huh?" she giggled when he pinched the skin over her ribcage in revenge. It hurt. He hugged her middle, his arm heavy and unapologetic before she could tell him he'd caused her well-deserved pain.

"Sorry," she whispered and kissed his chest. Twice, thrice. He kissed her forehead, tit for tat.

All was forgiven.

"Shut up, Lizzie." Sound advice.

She followed it.

Author's Note: Gotcha! What, did you think he was bedding another woman?! Come on now, you know me better than that! Oh, chapter 18 ends here.


	20. He Swallows

Author's Note: Set prior to Luli Zeng's death.

People were vulnerable when they ate. The utopia of rich flavors and pleasurable textures often dulled down their senses, making them less cautious. An easy prey.

He was in the midst of chewing a bite of what he classified as an acceptable croissant when she asked him that question. The muscles in his jaw lost their rhythm and he forced himself to swallow. _"What's the essence of your relationship with Luli?"_ she'd asked him, her timing perfect, and secretly cruel.

He allowed himself another handful of precious, silent seconds by taking a sip of his orange juice. They were seated in a secluded booth at Lizzie's favorite pastry shop. She was the one to ask him out for a bite. He could tell she was becoming a lot more receptive towards his strange feelings for her.

He was relishing in watching her as she stuffed her face with pastry, washing it all down with black coffee, any hint at grace long gone. He knew questions were an inevitable part of their ordeal. He simply didn't anticipate his relationship with Luli to be the focal point of their breakfast.

"I know you're sleeping together. That much is obvious," she announced matter-of-factly and took another sip of her coffee, raising her eyebrows at him in what seemed like a good-natured challenge.

"Oh, yeah? How so?" he was onto her. He needed to figure out her angle.

"The physical proximity you two are comfortable with sharing suggests you're intimate," she justified, feigning professionalism.

"Have you been observing us long, Lizzie?" it was his turn to be challenging, yet good-natured. And oddly uncomfortable with the prospect of revealing too much.

"You could say that," she smiled. She knew. She knew admitting to being interested in him would get her places; secretive places. "So?" she prompted.

"She and I are intimate. We don't sleep together on a regular basis, but yes, there is an aspect of our relationship that _is_ sexual," he answered calmly. Present tense could be a cruel thing. They were sexual to this day. It bothered her, she had to admit.

"But why is she so special?" she decided to continue probing. She was bracing herself for more blows to her newly-found attraction to him.

"She was very young when she came to me, to us. Truly pure," he was being truthful. His teeth were performing their usual duties, biting at the inside of his cheek. She knew she'd touched a nerve.

"If you were cherishing her purity so much, why did you allow for the relationship to become sexual," she tried her hardest not to sound judgmental. She feared she'd failed.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Lizzie," he warned her.

She was not backing down. Insistence was written all over her face. It made her cheekbones appear higher and her jawline – sharper.

If he could trigger her jealousy, all the while being honest, he would.

"She asked me to be intimate with her. To be her first," he said, hoping the truth won't ruin what was beginning to emerge between them.

She took another sip of her coffee. It was her turn to swallow.


	21. She's Curious

She had been in love with him for over three months. The persistent nudging inside her chest got its proper name, at last! In result, her entire being was lighter; it was as if her mind had finally freed itself from the burden of keeping her feelings for him repressed and under stoic control.

Curiosity proved to be love's sound companion. She was bombarding him with personal questions at all times. He'd always known her to be relentless, so he decided to humor her. His blunt answers often surprised her, even though they shouldn't have. He enjoyed the quiet gasps that escaped her and was hungry for more of them. He couldn't believe his luck, truly - she was so eager, so interested to devour every bit of information he was hurling her way. She was genuinely interested, the perfect creature that she was. What a happy, all-consuming outrage.

"When was the last time you had sex?" she asked him as they waited for Dembe and Aram to return to the surveillance van they'd been occupying all day. She'd never asked him about his sex life before. Maybe this was a boundary not to be crossed, he thought. It was too brief of a thought, however, and it didn't get the chance to make him reconsider his honesty.

"A couple of nights ago," he informed her, trying to adjust to this new, inappropriate territory. "Why do you ask?" he allowed himself one question. And it was a feat; her questionings were unstoppable, giving him no time to sedate his own curiosity for her.

"I'm just really curious. You're so composed all the time. I can't imagine you can achieve this without regular sex," she offered. "You know, cause it's a good way to relieve stress," she explained.

"It is," he agreed and smiled at her, taking her in. It was not why she'd asked him that, and he knew it.

"Did you last long?" she felt herself going too far. Tactfulness was kicked to the curb and it wasn't returning to her anytime soon.

He raised her eyebrows at her, indicating what she was doing was dangerous, lethal. The path she'd chosen could destroy the ease they had established. But if she could be brave, so could he. He was joining her in whatever she was trying to achieve.

"I lasted long enough, Lizzie. Are you concerned my old age is an obstacle?" he ventured humorously.

That made her laugh. She wasn't concerned. But she was curious and very eager. She'd wondered about his stamina, about the length of his cock. Thoughts of the kind flooded her mind every time they drove together in his impeccable car and whenever he was kissing her temples and knuckles. She was not one to banish such thoughts. Instead, she'd allowed them to make her wet in his presence, without him knowing. What a teenager she was becoming.

"No, I'm not concerned. Did your partner come?" Really, what did she have to lose?

His jaw went slack.

TBC


	22. He Dodges a Bullet

Author's Note: Chapter 21 ends like so.

"I'd hate to resort to conventional ways to set boundaries, Lizzie, but this is personal," he tried. It was the least he could do in order to steer away from the catastrophe this conversation could be. His caution was a formality, though, and he was well-aware of it. She was not going to back down.

"Do you really wanna talk boundaries? You had every room of my house under surveillance for years. Are you trying to tell me you've never had a peek?" a triumph was achieved. She'd won yet another round.

"My partner did come. Twice, to be exact," he informed her with evident delight. Dodging the more dangerous of the two bullets was a good survival strategy. One that would give him a chance to live and see where their odd relationship would go.

"Wow," she managed with a smile. He could've misinterpreted it that as mockery, so she decided preventative damage control was best. "No, really, it's impressive. How did you make her come?" she continued.

"You're pushing it, Elizabeth," he warned her, hoping he was able to convey how much he meant it.

"So were you, by the sound of it," she giggled like the 15-year-old teenager she felt she was whenever he was around.

"Are you quite done?" he sighed.

"I hope you didn't ask her that," she laughed out loud this time, proud by her own humorous prowess. "Okay, okay, that was the last one, I promise," she surrendered, referring only to the shots she was taking at him. The questions she had, on the other hand, were, at least, a decade's worth. "Tell me," and she meant it.

He looked at her for the longest time. He was unprepared for this kind of interest.

"I went down on her. She came within minutes. The second time, she came during sex," his eyes were on her face the whole time. Like a vulture waiting for his prey to step forward and make itself available for death. She never did. She'd learned how to be composed around him, how to get whatever she was after.

"See, was that so hard?" she smiled, hoping her glee was contagious enough to cheer him up.

"Whatever this is, Lizzie, we need to discuss it in more accommodating surroundings. Tonight," she was left with no choice, but she didn't mind.

"Tonight," she repeated her agreement.

That same night, her expectations about his stamina and capabilities were exceeded.


	23. He Knows Best

Author's Note: Just a little something requested by Catherine_Medici. Uncharacteristically fluffy. Any association with Fifty Shades of Grey is an insult. You've been warned.

She had been uncomfortable all day. It showed. She was hunched, and there was something about the way she walked - her feet were struggling to follow her mind's lead. And he noticed, naturally. He'd been desperate to find out what was bothering her, whether it was a physical issue or a whole different kind of turmoil. But she wouldn't share. "I'm fine," she'd say every time he asked her. "Let's just get through the day and meet up after we're done around here," she suggested, a palm on the side of her face. He'd learnt how to choose his battles. He'd lost this one.

"Should I ask you again?" he tried a few hours later when he found her limp and miserable on the sofa at his latest safe house.

"Drop it, Red, please. I just need a shower and a warm bed," she managed to let out, all in one sigh.

"Tell me," and he meant business.

"I got my period today and I am miserable. Now, can we please, for the love of God, let this go?" she begged and let her fists hit the sofa, just like a toddler who'd just discovered the power of a good tantrum.

As luck would have it, he was good at handling tantrums. And hormonal women. Her, especially. He smiled. She'd caught him by surprise. He considered telling her a story about how he'd learnt to be of help in situations like these but decided not aggravate her. How jealousy and hormones combined in her head was anybody's guess and for once, he wasn't feeling adventurous.

He walked towards her and extended a helpful hand in her direction. "Up," he ordered. A simple yank, and up she was.

He had to tug a little but she did follow. She didn't even ask him what was he was up to and that alone delighted him. She'd trusted him enough to forgo her desire to be in the know.

He opened the bathroom door and realization hit her shortly after.

"Whatever you're thinking about, forget it. I'm in pain and moody," she warned. "Moodier than usual, that is," she attempted a joke. Hope was not lost to cramps and mood swings.

"Even I am more altruistic than that, Lizzie," he smiled at her, heading to the bathtub. Taking no offense, the peculiar human that he was.

It took him 10 minutes to prepare a bath for her. And it was a good bath; one that featured aromatherapy oils and the kind of warmth that made one yearn for sleep and spooning, with the smell of male cologne on soft pillows.

He undressed her quickly, postponing all erotica for better times. And they would come.

She made him turn around when she realized she needed to dispose of her tampon. Not that he would be disgusted. She liked to think nothing about her could be off-putting to him.

"Ease into the tub. Lie down. Rest your head right here," he instructed, not trusting her own common sense. She decided to let him believe he knew best whenever she was concerned.

"Thank you," she smiled up at him and kissed his palm as a form of sincere gratitude.

She moved it to rest on her left breast and held it there.

He kneeled next to the tub. And hummed.


	24. He Walks

Author's Note: Set right after Anslo Garrick Part Conclusion.

It felt as if she was preparing the room for a fragile newborn. Clean sheets and floors so tenaciously disinfected could persuade even the most reasonable mind the room didn't house a single microbe.

He was alive and the least she could do to channel her residual fear was to prepare the bedroom for when he returned.

He was in a lot of pain, Dembe had warned on the phone. Drugged so that every nerve in his body felt as if it was actually exposed, he'd specified.

She recognized her fear for his safety had unleashed _something_. She'd been actively trying to suppress her natural urge to dig deeper until she'd discovered what the essence of her obsession was. It could wait. Making sure the temperature in her bedroom was exactly right could not. 25 degrees. Not more, not less.

Dembe was supporting Reddington's left side on the short path from the Mercedes to her apartment. Red was doing his own walking, she noticed. Where there was walking, there was hope this day would eventually come to an end. And he'd wake up the next morning, good as new.

Mere seconds later his left side was supported by her body. He wouldn't utter a word. " _Are you in pain?_ " she'd asked him. " _What do you feel_?" Not a word. His breaths were short and frequent. They were supplementing screams and whimpers.

She thanked Dembe and told him he could go. Half a nod provided by Reddington and they were alone.

TBC


	25. They Walk

Author's Note: Chapter 24 stumbled upon chapter 25 on its way to the finale.

"Red, can you focus on my voice? Can you do that for me?" she spoke in a voice gentle enough to soothe both hummingbirds and serial killers alike. He was a fine mixture of the two anyway. "Red?" she tried again because, if perseverance could grant her the gift of Red's life, it could grant her a response from him too. And he did hum a confirmation a second later. It marked the first sound he'd produced since his return. He even lifted his eyebrows and attempted a nod. To her, it was a milestone and a miraculous proof his mind and body still worked.

The progress they made from the patio all the way to her bathroom was an act of labor for them both. She wanted to approach the pressing matter of undressing him with _some_ caution. She didn't care for things as ordinary as shame or boundaries; not one bit. But she had to think about all of him. He'd lost enough for one day. His dignity was was not parting ways with him too.

"Red, we need to get you cleaned up, okay? Mr. Kaplan said what they'd drugged you with will wear off slowly. Is okay for me to help you?" she asked him once they found themselves centimeters away from her shower. She looked up at him to find him in what she interpreted as deep concentration. His eyes were open. They were focused on his shoes or on the floor, she'd assumed. He wasn't looking at her, that was all she knew.

"Alright," he said. An entire word, short but certain. He was coherent. He'd given her his consent.

She'd never seen him naked before. Or physically vulnerable, for that matter.

There was a first time for everything, they said. And today, she was basing her decisions on an overly-exploited cliche.

TBC


	26. He's Clean

Author's Note: The end of a three-chapter era.

His body was making a return to its inborn senses. His eyes were steady on her now, not missing a single movement that she made as she worked on achieving the perfect water temperature in her shower stall. He had seated himself on the edge of her bathtub. He'd done it all on his own. He was using the strength of his arms to support himself and it turned out to be another successful venture. His breaths were calmer too, and she hoped this meant his pain was ebbing away. No more whimpers and screams, disguised as the basic need for oxygen.

Next, he took notice of her small, tidy bathroom. It occurred to him that was the first time he was allowed in this intimate area of her apartment. He wished sympathy didn't contribute to the kindness she was showing him.

"Shower's ready, Red. Let's get you out of those clothes, alright?" she suggested gently, hoping bravery wouldn't betray her when she needed it most. She stood him up, and he grabbed the nearby sink, just in case. But he was steady. Guilt invaded her when she realized his quick recovery didn't go with her plans to help him shower. So, it was true what they said - helping others was not a selfless act. Maybe his love for her wasn't entirely selfless either. Maybe it was not a parental kind of love, untainted by selfishness.

He was watching her think. Waiting to see if she was going to go through with what she'd suggested earlier. The prospect of letting her help him in such an intimate manner frightened him. It didn't, however, frighten him enough. His left hand let go of the sink. Not a single ounce of balance was lost. He started unbuttoning his vest, his fingers learning how things were done anew.

"Let me help you with that," Liz said somewhat tentatively. She helped him with his vest and decided to start working on unbuttoning his shirt next.

"Are you going to get in the shower with me, Lizzie? Is that what you're going to do?" two perfectly reasonable sentences that had the potential to make her reconsider her intentions. He was coming back to his senses. She was presented with the opportunity to do the same.

"I believe I am," Liz confirmed and divested him of his bloodstained shirt. "You're a man with multiple layers, I see," she pointed out and grabbed the hem of his undershirt with both hands, making contact with the fine hairs of his belly for the first time. Now that death was off the table, jokes were allowed, were they not?

He smiled and simply lifted his arms in surrender to being left shirtless in front of this wild creature that kept on insisting life was worth living.

He had a tattoo on his left ribcage. She'd read his file. She knew he had more. She'd see them soon enough.

"You do the belt, I do the pants?" she suggested with a smile. They were working together, their bravery encouraging this madness. It was all insanity's fault. Someone should stop them, he thought. But it was just the two of them in her warm, tidy bathroom. They were both voluntarily helpless.

He undid his belt and looked at her. He'd completed the job she'd given him, after all. It was her turn. Her fingers tackled the button of this pants, then the zipper. Even his clothing contributed to the completion of this catastrophe.

"Why don't you get in the shower first, Lizzie?" he asked, knowing she would've pulled down his pants and boxers otherwise.

"Will you be able to make it to the shower on your own?" she questioned his newly-found physical strength.

"I will be just fine," he reassured her. Of course, he would be fine. The path to this potentially grand mistake was going to be a smooth one, without a single obstacle to sober him up.

Her silent agreement manifested itself in the clothing she discarded a minute later. Her underwear didn't join the messy pile she'd left on the floor. Not all boundaries were going to be crossed that evening, it seemed.

*****

Elizabeth got inside the shower stall and started the water almost immediately. She did nothing to rush Reddington inside. This predicament was complicated enough. She was prepared for the eventuality of him leaving her in her sad, soaked underwear. She was resolved to not let disappointment cloud her shaken judgment. If he chose to seize the last chance at walking away from her, she would have to banish all bitterness and anger from her system. Respecting one's choices was a virtue; a promise for some sort of gratification in this life or the next.

Only, there was no need for her to abuse her fragile patience. Because the cool air that reached her skin told her Red was joining her in this, whatever it was. She felt his body brush against her back, nudging her.

"Move, Lizzie," he instructed, very quietly. The warm water she'd adjusted for him couldn't reach his body because she was in the way. She repositioned herself immediately and finally faced him.

He was completely naked. She stole a brief glance at his lower abdomen and the fine, wet hairs she'd always suspected were there.

"Move closer, Red. We need to get you warm," she ventured. He did as he was told, taking her in once more. He wasn't shy about looking at her breasts and stomach. His belly was brushing against hers now and she made no attempt at breaking the intimate contact.

Instead, she distributed some shower gel between her palms and tried to massage the tension out of his shoulders and neck. His head was hanging low; the suppressed fear for his own life was vacating his body. Her tender palms moved onto his chest, not avoiding his nipples. She was decided to explore every texture his body had to offer.

"Mr. Kaplan told me you've managed to resist the serum they gave you for the longest time," she started as she washed his stomach. "Did you learn how to do that at the academy?" she questioned.

"Yes", he breathed out and nodded. "I mastered it at 28, I believe," he said, leaning his left side on the wet tiles. "Lizzie, why don't you hand me some soap? I'd like to-," but it was too late. Her left hand was soapy, warm and wrapped around his semi-erected length, cleaning him whole. Shaft and tip included. She repeated the motion four times, then kneeled in front of him and washed his thighs. She wasn't bluffing earlier.

"I've got you, Red", she soothed and kissed his inner thigh.

This was no bluff either.


	27. They Are Grand

Author's Note: Inspired by Florence + the Machine's Spectrum - the song of warm hues and happiness.

"Does that feel good?" he asked her very, very quietly. He made good use of her closed eyelids by kissing them both, then focused his opened lips on her forehead before he allowed himself a grunt. He was inside her for the very first time.

Their physical intimacy was a beast born of gradual evolution. She'd started it. The act of letting her head rest on his lap after a particularly exhausting mission was an involuntary one but it brought consequences nevertheless. The Universe wanted its balance and Liz's innocence was not going to change a thing. She'd woken up, instantly startled. She'd taken a much-deserved nap in his immaculate Mercedes as Dembe drove them to her motel. He hadn't dared move a muscle then, astonished by the physical proximity he was gifted with. She'd gotten out of his car so quickly afterwards, she didn't give him enough time to come back to his senses and reassure her she'd done nothing wrong at all.

Their lovemaking was his fault too - he refused to sedate his silent hunger for her with the cautious touches he'd allowed himself prior to that evening. Now that he'd had a taste of what it would feel like to have her head pressed against his groin, his desire for her had started to reject its previous laughable allowance.

Evolution continued its organic course when he invited himself inside her motel room a week later. She'd just taken a shower; the fibers of her towel were still hard at work, trying to absorb every droplet of water on her body. He kissed her then, not feigning romanticism. It was a rough, wet kiss that required an arsenal of tongues and sucking. He'd told her to lie down and busied his mouth with her clit, probing her entrance with his tongue. What was she to do when he nibbled her stomach and licked her nipples so expertly? He made her come with his fingers that night, rubbing her clit ferociously as her wetness helped him along.

Evolution brought the living to their optimal potential; it erased previous limitations and enhanced life itself, making it fuller, _better_.

It was evolution that turned their unquenched desire for one another into real sex.

It was barely three o'clock in the afternoon and the sun had no intention to spare their egos. It was shining through the windows of their hotel room, making every truth about their bodies transparent. But because the Universe always sought its balance and the Sun was forever just, the unforgiving sunlight illuminating their forms was giving away its most splendid hues of orange and yellow. Nothing bad could come out of so much warmth and shared kindness.

He was on top of her and her legs were spread wide. Their stomachs and chest were pressed together as he moved inside her with ease. She was tight despite the years of regular sex with her former husband. They were not using a condom and she'd hurried him inside her before his pre-cum could go to waste on her belly. His penis was not smooth – its pronounced veins were filled with aroused, impatient blood; they were rubbing her in all the right places. She moaned, short and sweet. Her legs made their way onto his back as he moved in and out of her; he was kissing her on the mouth repeatedly, using his tongue to massage hers. Neither evolution nor perfection required an elaborate choreography. Their first time was uncomplicated and fairly quick. Regardless, she throbbed around him when she orgasmed and he remained nestled inside her as he softened.

"It feels grand," she answered at last.


	28. He Was Once Young

Author's Note: This one pairs beautifully with Duran Duran's "Come Undone".

The Sun seemed to have abandoned all its duties and was recklessly casting its entire light inside his apartment. The apartment where whimsy resided; it had found its forever home on the bookshelves, overflowing with splendid literature and inside every rare vinyl record he'd played for her before and after sex. Whimsy, in its clever nature, had formed an alliance with the secrets inside that same apartment and together, they reeled her in every time.

There, she'd discovered a Narnia of her own where every door or cabinet gifted her with a peak inside mysterious realms, too wondrous for words.

He'd been away sourcing information on the case they were working on. Her inquisitiveness, as well his cat needed daily nourishment, hence her regular visits to the apartment of secrets. She was never in a hurry to leave. She'd read his books and listen to his music. His cat, she was convinced, already loved her more than he did his master. She was in the apartment of secrets and love.

Elizabeth found the photograph on a Thursday. Two sleeps prior to Reddington's return. He'd shown her old pictures of himself before, offering the stories that went with them. But this one caused for her breathing to stop cooperating with her will.

She'd been rummaging through his nightstand in desperate need of a bandaid. Even after her bloody finger had been dealt with, she continued her quest to discovering something, _anything_. It was a shameful pursuit. One that ended in a triumph. Curiosity had won. Guilt would have to wait.

She had been holding the old picture for several long minutes, careful not to touch the actual image. It was as if her fingerprints would taint the precious find with markings of the unsightly present. It was as if the person in that stunning photograph was someone else entirely.

He couldn't have been a day older than twenty-five in that one, she determined. He was laying on a hammock with his arms loose and carefree on top of his chest. His eyes were smiling along with his entire face. And that head of his, with hair so angelic, innocent and blonde. His younger self had no under-eye bags to testify for sleepless nights; the contours of his face were sharper, challenging. She almost wished she knew him then; when his carefree body didn't have the weight of the entire world on its relaxed shoulders.

Then, along came the similarities. To this day, his eyes were full of passion, always eager and curious, ready to revel in every form of beauty there was. Searching. His chin had that sharpness to it still, so very particular. Yes, she would have had him then. But she had his 55-year-old self now and any form of trading was unthinkable.

Trouble was, the wheels had started turning the moment she laid eyes on that exquisite find. And she wanted to know everything about it and about the person who took it. The one who made him smile like _that_.

She'd ask him.

Two more sleeps.

TBC


	29. He's 55

Author's Note: Chapter 28 ends here.

Friday came very slowly that week. Her overwhelmed mind was so angry at Thursday for how reluctant it was to come to an end. Every hour prior to Red's return seemed resolved to bring her closer to the dangerous internal turmoil she was trying to escape from.

Elizabeth was working hard, so very hard, to suppress the irrational jealousy that was eating her. The sheer force of it was submerging her whole, wrestling with he resolve to keep her sanity intact.

Unfairly, Reddington had had a life before her. Once upon a long-forgotten time, he didn't even know her. A lifetime ago, he didn't feel a single ounce of love for her. A prospect so unimaginable, yet so clearly manifested in the photograph she had found and taken home with her. She had no right to resent his youth. His previous happiness was not something to be punished. Even though her greed for him begged to differ, she couldn't allow herself to be selfish with him. The act of always giving her everything was... what he did. He did it endlessly. It was her turn. She had to cherish every one of his past smiles and all the reasons behind them. And she would.

She considered questioning him about the picture as soon as he stepped foot inside her home. He wouldn't be surprised, either. He'd always known of her inquisitive nature and how little patience she had when she was after something, whatever it was. The questions that were burning her would come to the surface sooner rather than later. But first she would love him. She would feed and please him. She'd let him sleep right in the middle of her chest and his breath would caress her breast and nipple. He'd wake her up with a hand between her legs and she would be wet and ready.

Her jealousy was not going to drown them.

"Come sit with me, please," he pleaded when she stood from the couch and announced she was going to cook for him or die trying. "Come on", he nudged her more for good measure when he sensed she was about to abandon the idea of food. He was visibly tired. It made her want to kiss his eyelids and lull him to sleep.

"Tonight was supposed to be all special and romantic, you know," she informed with a huff as she nestled herself next to him again. Her hand found its way inside his shirt and stayed there – on his right breast.

"Well, you've always loved a good plan," he told her and laughed when she squeezed his chest hard, in acknowledgement of his wit. "What were you going to cook?" he asked her and angled his head in order to look at her face.

"Roasted lamb," she laughed into his neck. After all, such an ambitious prospect was laughable; she didn't cook. He cooked. After they'd had sex and before. It made him happy, he always insisted.

"Will you allow me to take you out, Lizzie? If you feel like lamb, I know just the place. Even I can't cook meat as impeccably," he admitted regretfully.

"Aren't you tired? Will you have enough energy for me after?" she asked him with gleaming, playful eyes.

"Well, I will need to find a way to stay in shape after our meal, won't I?" he kissed her quickly then, but his tongue had enough time to tease hers.

He could be so unfair sometimes.

They made love once that night. It was so delightfully easy and perfect. She liked how she didn't have to wear lace; her cotton underwear made him just as happy as he kissed and bit her through her panties. His cologne mixed in with the smell of her clean sheets. Now she could sleep. Now that he was back to her and back to being 55. Revisiting him at 25 would have to wait.

One more sleep.

Or a hundred.


	30. She's Observant

Author's Note: Google the Clumber Spaniel. I dare you.

Often, more so than she liked to admit, she would observe him with such keen interest, one could easily assume she was investigating the life of a newly discovered wild animal.

And such assumptions would not be entirely incorrect. After all, he was so peculiar and rare; his entire being triggered her fascination daily. Sometimes hourly. It felt as though a single lifetime would not suffice in her quest to unveiling his many secrets. She had to try regardless. He had become her favorite pastime and the most complicated riddle she'd ever had to solve.

Often, more so than she realized, he'd catch her staring at him. She didn't have the slightest knowledge of how her genuine awe soothed him; she loved him a great deal, he'd discovered, and she wanted to _learn_ him. He had come to cautiously accept this new, serene reality where she loved him almost as much as he loved her. He would always be the one to love more. Her young, innocent heart was still unprepared to experience the intensity of a love so all-consuming.

At first, she was bashful after getting caught staring. She feared the awestruck gazing she was indulging in was silly and a hair too childish. How ignorant she was. Little did she know his 55-year-old heart could barely keep up with the happiness she was granting him with her hunger to always know more.

It didn't take her long to discard the silly shame that was preventing her from fully immersing herself in their new happy reality. Because she'd always been a quick study, they went over his general life history fairly quickly. Of course, the brief overview of his life begged even, more, questions. And what bold questions they were. She was peeling each layer with increasing ease.

When they were not conversing, she liked to simply observe him. Her thorough examination of his enigmatic persona had its stages, after all. She'd learned he was more comfortable sleeping on his right side and he loved to be the little spoon. He also loved when she scratched his head, much like a luxurious Clumber Spaniel – regal, rare and lazy.

He'd started moaning more often when they had sex, she noted, and especially when he climaxed. His pleasure used to be silent before. He was becoming more vocal, it would seem. He relished in listening to classical music, jazz and rock and his entire body was quick to adjust to the rhythm of any given musical piece. It made sense, of course; he was a good dancer.

After weeks of decadent observation, it was safe for her to finally conclude he was a true grump in the morning. He liked nestling further into whatever pillowed his head for the night; be it her belly or her chest, or an actual pillow, if all else failed. Grumpiness aside, he was an admirer of morning sex. Such precious moments helped her discover the delightful ways in which the sunlight altered the color of his chest hair. It made his eyelashes striking in their angelic paleness. Light could be deceiving sometimes.

*****

That morning Elizabeth was watching Reddington as he shaved. His performance was immaculate and blood-free; it appeared to be an organic act of self-maintenance. In spite of their time together, she'd never observed his morning routine before. Upon looking at him, she quickly realized she shouldn't have waited so long. He was at so much ease. His boxers hung low on his hips, revealing his belly. He was barefoot; his legs were lean, strong and manly. The scarring on his back was something she barely ever noticed. She liked it that way. She liked how she was capable of overcoming their shared past and how that gave way to something new and free of flaws and anguish.

"Staring again, Lizzie?" came his muffled question. He was tackling a particularly tricky area around his chin.

"What can I say? Some things can't be helped," she answered and was quick to approach him. She inspected their reflections in the mirror and truly loved what she saw. She waited for him to rinse his razor to kissed his shoulder. He was about to tap the razor against the sink and resume his work when she embraced him from behind and positioned her hands on each of his nipples.

"Keep rinsing," she smiled against the skin of his back.

"And I thought I'd worn you out last night. If I knew you were eager for more, I would've woken you up half an hour earlier," he told her softly and with cheer. His head was seeking her, turning towards her but she remained well hidden behind his broad back.

"Something's been on my mind for awhile, you know," she began and let go of him so he could finish shaving. She was about to cross yet another boundary, but her curiosity wouldn't be merciful enough to leave her alone. When she had to know, she simply had to know.

"Oh, yeah?" he managed upon finalizing his grooming activities. "Are you planning on letting the cat out of the bag anytime soon or do I have enough time to rinse?" he leaned over the sink and looked at her with smiling eyes.

"Funny," she muttered and squinted her eyes at him. "Okay, here it is. I've noticed you're very… neat you know, down there. And it has me wondering, you know? Like, how do you maintain it," she managed in spite of her burning cheeks. When she finally looked at him, she noticed he was genuinely surprised by her now customary forwardness. But there was something about the way he kept smiling at her; he was not going to dismiss her question.

"Well, it was certainly easier back in the day when I had a doting girlfriend to provide some help," he began and moved towards her. His hands were on her hips and they were swift and sure when they caused for her front to collide with his.

"Ah, yes. Doting girlfriends are hard to find these days," she followed his humorous lead and got a hold of his face. She kissed his nose, then his mouth. "Don't get distracted. Answer my question," she pressed because she knew him and she knew herself. Distracting her was no feat at all. She could never protest against his ministrations and sexual advances. Not that she'd ever tried.

"I trim, Lizzie. On my own. It is hard work, I'll have you know. You can watch next time if you'd like," he told her and raised his brows the same way he always did when he was suggesting something of grand mischief.

"How about we raise the stakes?" she asked then, "Would you let me do it for you?" a kiss on his chest was always a good way to speed things along in her desired direction, she hoped.

"I would," he answered.

A promise was made.


	31. They're Enough

Elizabeth had always found surprises to be particularly loathsome. Her organic craving for security could not thrive on the fear of the unknown and that was that. She'd always been one to plan, ever since she was a toothless, yet admittedly charming six-year-old with golden locks. Her dolls had to be tucked in bed by eight o'clock every evening. Their curfew was not to be disputed. She always placed her pristine notebooks on the right side of her desk; it was easier for her to organize her school bag in the morning that way.

The pattern continued well into her adulthood – no surprise birthday parties, no unplanned trips, not even with Tom. Their engagement was no surprise either. Everything, from her modest diamond ring to the tablecloths for the engagement party, was chosen by her. Her desire to adopt a child had been a consistent life goal for years prior to meeting her husband.

Becoming a mother was something she had always wanted to plan as thoroughly as humanly possible. No child of hers would ever be an accident. Motherhood was no accident. She was a grown woman and she had always planned to do her knowledge and education justice by being responsible. Decent. Sound. She was always one to choose _the right thing_.

Yet, there she was betrayed by her good intentions and immaculate judgment, agonizing over the possibility of being pregnant with Reddington's child.

It was going to be a stormy night, it seemed. Not one for romance; not at all. The severe flashes of lightning outside brought nothing but thunder. And thunder only ever promised nothing but fear and more electric anxiety. Thunderstorms and the unknown had to be related somehow, she thought. There was no other explanation for the similar ways in which they caught their prey by surprise, making it deaf and helpless.

Nothing was cooperating with her that evening. Because of the upcoming storm, electricity had parted ways with her entire neighborhood two hours ago. She was going to have to wait until the next day to buy a pregnancy test. He wouldn't let her leave the apartment in weather so horrendous. More importantly, he'd question her; he would want to know what could possibly be so urgent.

She couldn't even curl up next to what seemed to be a particularly cheerful Red with a book in her lap, in an attempt to conceal the weight of her secret. Only, the secret was not simply hers to keep and protect. If she was indeed pregnant, that same secret was his as much as it was hers and he had to know.

His daughter had always been the creature he loved the most. Liz was not jealous. It was how it should be. He was a father. Fathers loved their children more than they did their lovers. She had no right to singlehandedly take away his chance at that kind of blessed love again.

She was going to tell him as soon as he joined her on her sofa, right before his skilled, erotic ministrations could distract her. Together, they were going to do _the right thing_.

"I hope you aren't too fond of this Jo Malone candle, Lizzie. It was the only one I could find. Which reminds me, your drawers need an urgent rearrangement," he spoke happily. His merriment was a wonderful feast. One she wanted to indulge in. But first she had to set herself free by telling him the truth first.

"Something on your mind, sweetheart?" He asked, and his question made her look up at him. He had lit up the enormous scented candle she was secretly saving for special occasions, the essence of which she had yet to decide upon. He was concerned. He knew something was up; it was done. He placed the candle on her coffee table, the one they chose together and joined her on the couch. He took her left hand, freeing it from the obligation to rub her temple and kissed the knuckles of it, looking at her with kind eyes; there was no hurry in them at all. Just concern.

"I might be pregnant. Haven't done a test yet but it's a very realistic possibility," she finally told him, trying not to break down in tears too soon into that dreadful conversation. His hands continued to hold hers but the gentle ministrations of his thumbs against her flesh came to an abrupt end.

"When did you become aware of this possibility?" he asked. He was dead serious.

"Today. Sometime in the afternoon. It occurred to me I was late," she told him truthfully. She was not going to lie to her protector, lover and best friend. "I considered waiting till tomorrow when I would've known for sure and tell you then. I'm scared,", she said and the first sequence of transparent, glittering tears left her eyes. He kissed her palm and breathed in, then out, three times.

"I love you," she told him, not wanting to interrupt his silence. "And I want a future with you. But I also didn't plan for this to happen. Not that I know if it _has_ happened. I'm not sure how I feel about this," she breathed out, cutting off her own ramblings.

The scent of the ostentatious candle was starting to kick in with delicious, refined force. Its softness, as well as the warmth of his lips on her palm, caused for her anxiety to give way to happiness so grand, she was rendered speechless. Her entire world was narrowed down to their sacred union and a candle's blessing. It was enough. The love they had for one another was going to be enough to sustain their life together, even if that life included a child.

"We'll get you a test tomorrow and then go from there, okay, sweetheart?" He told her warmly, touching her forehead with his. "It'll be fine either way. You know that, right?" He confirmed all of her hopes in a single string of simple sentences.

"I know. I love you," she told him confidently.

"I love you way more. Shall we go to bed?" He suggested and stood up, taking the candle in one hand and her palm in the other.

"Let's go," she said happily and followed his lead on their way to her bedroom.

"The apartment will get cold in half an hour," she said regretfully as she undressed. What she said suddenly nudged her to envision a routine settling in; not one that promised boredom and predictability, but rather one that meant he was in her life. Permanently.

"Well, it's a good thing we can count on body heat then," he smiled at her as he folded his clothes with care. He lifted the covers and got into bed first, watching her as she removed her underwear. She joined him soon after, laying her head where his belly and chest met.

"Let me blow out the candle, darling," he said, and she enjoyed the way the sound vibrated its way to her ears and left cheek.

Maybe their baby would be just like her. Maybe he or she would love to rest on Red's stomach as his gentle hands caressed their little, perfect back. She waited for him to return to his position in bed. When he did, he pulled her to him, their bellies and thighs touching. Their hands found their way to her flat stomach and remained there, locked.

"We'll be fine either way," he told her and kissed her on the mouth. That was going to be their final night together before discovering the truth.

"Yeah." Not an agreement.

A promise.


	32. She's an Ingénue

Author's Note: So, I have a beta now. I suppose I'm becoming a serious fanfiction author. ;) Thank you, Meaghan!

Over the years, Elizabeth Keen and her insecurities had found a way to co-exist somewhat peacefully. They had an unspoken agreement and each party was to keep their part of the bargain. Doubt had Liz's permission to lurk around her thoughts without invading them. Her insecurities could haunt her without devouring her. If the boundaries were crossed, Elizabeth reserved her right to punish them like the unruly beasts they were by locking them in the very depths of her mind. They had to learn.

She'd been coping well. There was very little beauty to coping. Little to none. But she had been functional. She'd had things under her fragile control.

Then, along came Reddington. It was as if he and Liz shared custody over her emotional world and that included her self-doubt and fears. Ironically, Reddington was the good cop in the unsightly ordeal; always the one to dismiss the punishments she'd enforced upon her unruly beasts, setting them free.

Reddington had called her at four o'clock in the morning to cheerfully inform her of the high-profile gala they were to attend that same evening. They were meeting an informant there, he'd said. She confirmed her attendance and was thorough in her guidance on where he could shove his sense of timing, and how deep.

Less than fifteen hours later, she was wearing couture and was trying to brace herself for their undercover mission in vain. She'd been struggling with the zipper of her gown for at least fifteen minutes. Her luck did that sometimes – it refused to bail her out of humiliation and unnecessary irritation.

His ease angered her. He was simply standing there, in the dingy motel room she was coming to resent, hands in his pockets, regarding her. He was smiling and his eyes were taking her, all of her. In spite of her mental preparations and professional experience, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd seen better; better women, more beautiful and more feminine. She was a 31-year-old woman who was reduced to a mere ingénue.

"Make yourself remotely useful and zip me up", she barked at him. It was uncalled for. _He'd live_.

"What man can resist a plea so polite?" He smirked and approached her, but his beautiful cologne won the race and reached her first.

"Not you, apparently," she spat pathetically. Childishly.

His hands were quick and sure. He'd done it before. He'd done it many times before. She wanted nothing more than to tell her jealousy to vacate her mind immediately but her unruly beasts didn't care much for the spoken word.

He zipped her up and she expected for his fingertips to leave the skin of her back. But Red was not one to leave a task halfway finished. She felt him tuck the label stamp of her dress; he disciplined it with his pointer finger and ordered it to stay put. He could be the bad cop every now and then.

"Never me, Lizzie," he grumbled and kissed her cheek.

Her immaculate feathers were ruffled by a simple kiss.

She liked it that way.


	33. She Smells of Happiness

Author's Note: Fluff, edited by Meaghan M (Juulna).

His sleep had been so deep and satisfyingly dreamless, he was resolved to inflict infinite amounts of pain upon whoever was on the other side of that damned front door. It was going to be a vengeance so sweet that his insensitive victim was going to beg him for the blessed release of a quick bullet in the head. It would be glorious, so glorious.

Once he reached the foyer, he swung the offensive barrier open and was shocked when it revealed Elizabeth's face – smug, victorious.

"This better be good," he grumbled and made his way back inside the house without looking back, trusting she'd follow.

"What, my visit isn't the highlight of your day?" she asked as she walked with him to the expansive kitchen of his latest safe-house.

"No, it most certainly isn't, Elizabeth. Because it is two o'clock in the morning," his voice remained rough. She could get used to that. "What's going on, Lizzie?" he asked.

"You do realize you've called me in the middle of the night on more occasions than I care to count, right?" she tried.

Pathetically, she'd become so accustomed to his constant presence whilst on the run, being without him didn't feel organic anymore. They'd had to share a bed seven times. She kept count. More often than not, she wished his scent could penetrate the fibers of her pillow. She wanted her mind to be lulled to sleep by the smell of him. He didn't know that she was aware of the instances when his loving fingers stroked her hair when he thought she was engulfed by deep sleep. But she knew. His sweet love kept her heart warm and her core wet. He would keep his large palm on her back because it made her doze off within seconds. It was as if his hand were encouraging her to believe she deserved a good sleep, every once in awhile. All of that had been hers and nobody else's. She was there to collect what belonged to her. Simple as that. And she could tell him the truth. He'd understand. He'd gloat, then understand.

"I don't know how to go to sleep without you anymore and I feel dumb and vulnerable right now," she admitted and braced her naked elbows on the marble countertop in the impeccable kitchen they were in. That made him smile. It caused his eyebrows to form those delightful fine lines on his aging forehead.

He gave her water. Asked if she'd eaten. He didn't approve of the Big Mac she'd admitted to having devoured an hour earlier but wanted to know if it was any good anyway. He informed her she smelled of happiness and peonies. Nothing had changed. She had him still. What they had was there to stay.

"Come on, let's go to bed," he grabbed her right hand, not waiting for her answer.

"You're not going to be a decent man and offer me a separate bedroom?" She laughed behind him and grabbed his forearm with her left hand.

"Don't push it, Elizabeth," he warned, grump that he was.

She didn't bother asking if her lying on his stomach would cause him any discomfort. His fingers were hard at work, calming the nerves of her scalp.

"We should make love one of these days, Raymond," she announced and continued to draw patterns on his chest. "I mean it," she prompted and kissed his naked stomach. She'd insisted his T-shirt would prevent the exchange of natural body heat; what was he to do in such dire circumstances?

"Goodnight, Lizzie."

Sleep was there to reel her in.

She didn't struggle.


	34. He's Back

Author's Note: Set right at the end of The Good Samaritan. Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).

He hadn't tried to contact her for almost six weeks; not in any way. Confusingly, she was unprepared to be left without him. She'd made the mistake of taking his warmth for granted, as if she'd tamed it. As if it was a purring cat, content to be curled around her feet at all times. But wild cats had the tendency to leave. And it wasn't every day that they returned.

He'd lost his Luli; his very own faithful companion that only purred when she could make him happy. He'd loved her. Perhaps he needed time to do his suffering in peace. Or maybe she should bite the bullet for him, just like he'd done so many times when she needed to be consoled. Was he waiting for her to seek him out? _It was too juvenile of an attitude_ , she concluded. Reddington was no boy.

She should be focused on the stale leftovers of her marriage. But she refused to dive into that shallow well. It was going to leave her wet and shivering but not quite dead. She'd deal with it later. She'd have to. But her mind was somewhere else now; it was wherever he was. She wanted to see him, to touch his proud shoulders and tell him he had her still. She was no Luli. But he did have her. He had to know she was not a wild animal he could release into the wild. Not yet. Her wounds were not healed. She wasn't ready to be untamed again. _She'd call him tonight_ , she decided. She'd tell him. It would be her first step into the wild.

Tom announced he'd be leaving town. For work. She had her doubts, of course. But she was truly happy that she'd have the house all to herself. She'd have time to torture herself before dialing Red's number - the magical combination of digits that would grant her the sound of his soothing voice.

She was startled to find him inside her house. He'd made himself comfortable on her couch. She hadn't even sensed his presence or his beautiful scent upon entering her hallway. She should have. She should have had at least a dozen lungfuls before she even faced him. If he'd decided to simply not wait for her to return, she would have missed him. She wouldn't have even known. She realized then that she was wasting time analyzing her ignorance when she should have been taking him in.

They talked. She'd seated herself across from him, not daring to frighten him off of her territory. He was a rare cat that had bestowed her with his visit. It wasn't every day that rare cats visited her sad home.

They talked about the moll. He'd been "out and about". It was all he told her when she attempted a questioning. He was blindfolding her with casualness and she accepted it. She was going to be blind tonight. Granted, her endless craving for the truth would resurface tomorrow. But for the blessed time being she was a blind woman and he was leading her through the comfortable darkness. More importantly, he was back. He was there to stay. It occurred to her she shouldn't feel so overjoyed by his mere presence. Then, she remembered she was voluntarily blind. Her other senses were overwhelmed by his presence and were responding to his stimuli only. Sobering up would be a painful ordeal.

"Have I given you a key I've forgotten about?" She smiled a broad and happy smile.

"How have you been, Lizzie?" He only ever answered her questions when he deemed it was necessary. Tonight was not the night she'd try to break that habit. Tonight she wanted to embrace him; all of him.

"I've been alright. Yeah, I've been fine," she told him, nodding, conveying her truth. "You could've called. If you needed to talk to someone," she told him.

"You could've called too, Lizzie. If you wanted to talk to me." Unfulfilled good intentions were worth very little. So, she spared him the story of her internal turmoil and how she was preparing to make the call.

"Point taken. It's just that you always call. You can't just stop calling. It was a cruel thing to do," she informed him. "Take off your coat. It's warm in here," she suggested after a couple of tense beats. He did. He placed it on the couch, right next to him. It was his territory.

"It would seem you've missed me, sweetheart." And he was delighted. Strangely, she missed their games, even though he often won.

"I have. Did you miss me?" she asked him boldly.

"I have. Immensely. Never doubt that." He was very serious, utterly truthful. She'd won that game. So, she decided she could try her luck again and approached him. She took his coat and laid it down on the nearby living room chair, letting the length of the fabric rest on both armrests. She sat down next to him, not giving him nearly enough space. But he didn't cower away. He was comfortable with her exploration of him; of them.

His arms were set high on her sofa. She'd be a fool not to use the opportunity to inhale him. She had to find out if the side of his chest would pillow her head as perfectly as she'd hoped. It did.

"I'm sorry about Luli," she told him, and hugged his middle. She squeezed. He kissed her forehead once and let his lips linger. He nudged her head up and kissed her left eyelid. It made her happy and full, the fact that he knew he was not alone in his tenderness for her. She was the one comforting him; she was of genuine use.

It was the first time he'd accepted her help.

"Did you bring me anything?" She thought to inject some humor into their dire story and it paid off. It made him chuckle. She was winning tonight.

"Only myself. So, nothing you'd like," he murmured against her eyelid.

"Comes to show you know nothing about my tastes," she smiled, eyes still closed. Voluntary blindness was Heaven.

He stayed with her, hand on her blanket-covered thigh until she was sound asleep.


	35. She's Alive

Author's Note: An alternative ending to 1x04 "The Stewmaker". Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).

She would have been dissolved, had he not arrived on time. Would her brain have given in to death first? She remembered praying for that to be the case. She hoped to have been dead by the time her flesh and bones were attacked by the acids. Her body would have been turned into human stew. Even the genetic memory of her would have been wiped out, eaten by chemicals. There wouldn't have been a body to bury or burn. She would have been washed into a drain. Could a funeral be arranged if there was no corpse?

It was there, in that wheelchair, that she had started to love herself unconditionally, paralyzed body and terrified soul.

TBLTBLTBLTBLTBL

She knew the Stewmaker was about to lose his life the moment Reddington had started his story. It was the prelude to the execution of his revenge. He was avenging the mere possibility of her death. The Stewmaker was not going to be given the benefit of the doubt or a second chance.

A single, horrific splash and the acids took a victim after all. Flesh for flesh; bone for bone. His life for hers. Something had to give. Red was there to simply ensure she would not be the sacrificial lamb.

TBLTBLTBLTBLTBL

She felt his palm on her head. He informed her that the effect of whatever the Stewmaker had given her would start to wear off eventually. Not only was she alive, but she was going to be able to move and speak. She was going to be the rightful owner of her body again. She'd protect it better, she decided then. She'd cherish it purposefully and on a daily basis.

She was going to criticize Reddington's wicked, unfair ways, of course. She would tell him he shouldn't have taken that sorry man's life. She would go over the protocol of how criminals were to be treated. But first, she'd thank him. For always being on time. For being _there,_ wherever she was. She was lucky enough to have been bestowed with two guardian angels. Some people weren't as lucky. Sometimes they were turned into liquefied corpses.

TBLTBLTBLTBLTBL

Twenty minutes later, an FBI team was fussing over her, and over the Stewmaker's leftovers. They were asking questions. Reddington was giving answers for her. She couldn't speak, not yet. They'd take her home, Donald had promised. Only, she didn't wish to go home. She wanted to give her thanks to her guardian angel. The one she could see. The one with the under-eye bags and bright eyes; the one with the stubble. She'd thank Reddington for salvaging her life and for unleashing her love for it.

TBLTBLTBLTBLTBL

"I want to talk to you," she told him very slowly, testing her speech. Her tongue was recalling its use again. It was difficult. She'd never hate her own voice again. It was so wonderful that she still had one. So wonderful. "Don't let them take me to my house," she pleaded. He nodded. It was going to be arranged.

She was seated at the back of an ambulance. The doctor confirmed Red's assessment – she'd be fine in a few hours. Liz attempted a nod and it worked. She received a pat on her back by the doctor who celebrated her slow recovery as if she were a wobbly toddler. Her body did deserve praising, she thought. It was so good to her and so agreeable.

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"Lizzie, we're going to a safe house. Is that alright with you?" he asked her once he was satisfied with her position on the backseat of his car. "Dembe and I can take you to your home safely instead, if that's what you prefer." She didn't. She hadn't changed her mind. Perhaps Red had assumed she'd been a hair too euphoric to be alive and had asked to have a conversation with him as a result. His assumption wouldn't be inaccurate. She was ecstatic to be alive. But it didn't make her incoherent. She was resolved to thank him, to be near him. The irrational pull towards him had been torturing her for weeks. Her condition was the all-forgiving cloak that would justify the odd tenderness she felt for him. Any boldness would be allowed.

"I want to come with you," she reassured him. He did nothing to change her mind but rearranged the blanket they had given her instead.

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No one warned her about the shaking. It started near the end of their car journey. She was convulsing as if she'd been under local anesthesia. Only, it was infinitely worse. Her body was trying to get the gist of mobility again; it was lunging itself in various directions as if ecstatic to be awake after the forced slumber. It was not going to be a dignified process. Learning how to walk never was. Reddington was quick to soothe her, whispering words of encouragement, embracing her to his side. _"You're doing so well, Lizzie. So well!"_ he told her. _"Look how strong your body is. You'll be back on your feet in no time."_ But she was no longer a little girl. Sadly, she had learnt to distinguish between empathy and true enthusiasm. She forced a nod, then two, just so that he'd know it was not the muscles of her neck playing tricks on them both. _"Good girl."_ And a kiss on her head. It would seem she was not the only one making the best of the all-forgiving cloak of temporary paralysis. He was allowing himself the body contact he'd probably been craving without justifying it. Not in any way. It was alright with her. Everything was. Because she had a body that Reddington could kiss.

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He never asked her why she insisted on joining him and Dembe. He never questioned her angle, her intentions. But he did ask her if she was hungry. She was not. She told him so. She didn't stutter.

He offered her hot chocolate.

"I'm convulsing like a drug addict trying to get clean, Reddington." That one made him laugh. And it was not empathic laughter either. He informed her she'd have to try his notorious hot chocolate before she left. She promised him she would. Leaving could wait.

"I want to sleep. Then, I want to shower. Is that okay?"

"It is," he nodded, springing to his feet, getting her back on hers.

It was a long walk, the one from his living room to the bedroom. But he was praising her silly steps as if she'd achieved the impossible. It certainly felt like she had. He took off her shoes. He deemed her feet too cold to be left without her socks. He'd held onto them for several long seconds before he announced his verdict, giving them a few gentle squeezes.

"Lie down, sweetheart," he instructed. She did as she was told. She managed to answer a series of questions while he was fussing over the duvet and the placement of the rest of the pillows. _Yes, she was comfortable. No, she was not cold. Yes, the shaking was subsiding._

"Try and get some rest, Lizzie. We can talk when you wake up," he suggested, and was about to retract his arms from her. Her hand grasped one of his; she was fast enough for that, at least. They had time; the all-forgiving cloak was still working its magic.

"Stay here. The bed is more than enough for the both of us." He hesitated. Not all limitations were forgotten. It took him several seconds but he made up his mind. It had been decided. She was laying on her right side, trying to look up at him. His fingers were unbuttoning his vest while his eyes were taking in her shivering form. The vest was dealt with. He let go of it, letting it land on her duvet-covered thigh. Next came his shirt. He was standing there, mere centimeters away from her with his opened, crisp shirt. Once it was unbuttoned, he gathered his vest and moved away from her.

He was in bed with her by the time she managed to roll over to her other side. His pants were still on and so was her undershirt. He was lying on his side, smiling at her, comforting her. But her mission was not fulfilled yet. So, she lunged forward, landing on his pillow. Skin was touching skin. Her forehead was aligned with his mouth. He kissed her there, straight away. She hoped it was because it was the organic thing for him to do. She prayed there wasn't a single thing he'd rather he'd done instead.

"Thank you," she told him in a breath that warmed his neck. She was shaking against him. She wanted to spare him the discomfort of moving against him but her body wouldn't listen. He held her through her convulsions, palm gliding up and down the length of her spine. All was forgiven.

He was about to apologize for the way his body reacted to her involuntary movements. She didn't let him. Her shaky hand wrapped itself around his back, soothing him through the material of his T-shirt. All was forgiven.

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He kept kissing her forehead until she fell asleep.


	36. She's Unclean

Author's Note: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).

I.

He was so focused on getting her out of that suffocating van and taking her to safety that he almost missed the genuine surprise that had invaded the features of her face. The shock had caused for her ordinarily swift reactions to betray her and give away her newly-found timidity. Her jaw was slack, refusing to fulfill its duties, and her brows were raised as high as they could go. Her poor eyes seemed alarmed; wide and worried.

He wanted for her to change into a police uniform and he seemed resolved to do the same. They had to be quick about it, too. It was an endeavor that was going to take place in the van that could, in no way, accommodate modesty. It could only provide enough room for the two of them, her head on his shoulder, and for the embarrassment that was taking over her, making her professional experience in the field redundant.

She reminded herself that she should know better. That she was a trained agent and tentativeness in moments of grave danger was not a luxury she could indulge in. She was a hair too late and a hair too slow. He had already sensed her reluctance to take the clothing from his extended hand. He was onto her, like he always was.

"Lizzie, put this on now, please. We need to leave. Now," he instructed firmly, trying to inject urgency in his deceptively calm voice; anything to get her survival instincts back on track. He didn't venture into asking her what was on her mind. It made her wonder if he'd figured her out. It wouldn't be unlike him. Did he know she was struggling to undress in front of him? It took her less than five seconds to decide she was not going to confirm his suspicions by risking her life and his. She snatched the uniform from him and tried her hardest to be swift and sure. For her sake and his.

II.

She was buttoning her shirt up, annoyed at the cheap cotton and those tiny buttons that appeared to be too fragile to bear the weight of the fabric.

And she looked, naturally. She looked at him as he divested himself of his Armani pants and prayed he wouldn't notice. He did, naturally.

But she noticed things, too. Unexpected things. His thighs were muscular and it caught her off guard when it shouldn't have. The hairs on them looked soft and were light in color. His boxers looked expensive too. It took her five glances to obtain that intimate knowledge. He'd caught her staring all five times, without a single miss.

III.

He said nothing of her lack of decorum. He didn't scold her for how inadequate she'd acted in the van. She was grateful for his inborn tact. She knew he could abandon diplomacy when the need for force would arise. His kindness was her only silver lining and her sole reason for not abandoning her allegiance with sanity.

IV.

He utilized the filthy cot and made the most of it anyway. He sighed upon stretching his legs and the sound did not escape her. He had granted her an hour of peaceful slumber. She knew her comfort had cost him some of his. It was his fondness for their unsightly surroundings that proved _her_ comfort had cost him _all of his._

She'd felt that something was brewing inside her confused mind; something powerful. Her tender feelings for Reddington were transforming into something she refused to name or ponder on. Instead, she afforded another look at him, choosing to relish in those sweet sensations despite the nagging pull to analyze them.

His shirttails had escaped his pants. And she noticed. Naturally.

"You're making a habit out of staring at my lower half, Lizzie," he grumbled. She was quick to focus her gaze on his face. His voice didn't give her enough cues. She had to know whether he was being mercifully light-hearted.

He was. His smile was lazy and easy-going. Her juvenile ways were forgiven.

"Come lay here, Lizzie. You need to rest. I'll go investigate the alcohol supply in the bar," he suggested somewhat playfully and was seconds away from pushing himself from the cot.

"No. Stay," she told him quickly. "We'll rest together," she said, because she was foolish enough. But he nodded and she decided to make the most of the second silver lining of the day.

V.

Her head was resting on his right breast. Her left wrist had found a sanctuary on his stomach. Much like the van, the sorry little cot provided room for the two of them only. There was no space for thoughts of her job and lost dignity. There was very little space for musings on Tom and his boat.

Oddly, she felt guilt lurking in the corners of her temporary content. Reddington's fingers were toying with her and he was dropping occasional kisses on her forehead, but she had yet to wash off the remains of Tom's semen. It made her feel worthy of the filthy cot she was lying on.

She was unclean.

VI.

He'd fallen asleep with his lips on her forehead. His strong heart was consoling her confused mind. It was encouraging her to believe in clean slates and purity, even after Tom.

The hand that had been stroking her hair fell onto her left breast.

She did nothing to move it.


	37. He Kisses His Past Goodbye

Set at the end of 2x04 Dr. Linus Creel. Reddington kisses his wife goodbye. This time for real.

I.

What a foolish girl she was, looking out that window in an act of pathetic, ugly voyeurism. She was watching as Reddington kissed his wife's forehead goodbye and noticed that his lips lingered on her skin. So, he liked the feel of her aging skin against his lips. He wanted to memorize it. Her body acted upon this terrible thought and her arms found themselves crossed in front of her aching chest. She was sulking; every last piece of her.

What a foolish girl she was - she refused to even blink. As if the millisecond of darkness would prevent her from missing something of tremendous importance. She was robbing them of their privacy. They weren't going to have this moment all to themselves. Of course, her unblinking eyes couldn't force him to detach his body from Naomi's. She was only punishing herself by looking.

What a foolish girl she was - they were not even divorced.

II.

What a sorry girl she was - Reddington's tenacious efforts to free Naomi from Berlin had been an endless source of electrifying anger. The kind of anger that felt almost satisfying in its blinding intensity. He wanted her alive and well. Not to be with her and not in order for the two of them to rebuild their marriage. He wanted nothing for himself. What a rarity that was. And she, herself, was not the reason for it. His selfless tenderness was splitting her in two – his kindness warmed her very essence. But his selflessness was meant for someone else this time. For once, she was not the center of his universe. And she couldn't be angry and miserable in peace.

What a sorry girl she was – a notorious criminal was more altruistic than she was.

III.

It was that easy – she and him on a bench after his wife's departure. His focus was back on Elizabeth and their odd union. It was that easy for him – his emotions always submitted to his will., But it was not easy for her.

"Are you alright, Lizzie?" he asked her when he finally noticed how upset she was.

"Are you?" she fired back as if they were fighting. But they weren't. Her anguish was hers alone. That palpable anger and the damned possessiveness – they were her very own hellhounds. They were hers to tame.

Jealousy was a lonely business.

"I am," he told her, looking at her. His eyes lingered. She knew what that meant. She was in tune with his subtlety.

"You kissed her goodbye," she informed him unnecessarily.

"I kissed her goodbye." An immediate agreement. He got a hold of her small palm and started to inspect it; palm and fingers alike.

"I can't be a consolation prize," she admitted.

"Never," he confirmed. He brought her palm up to cup his rough cheek. "You're the only prize, Lizzie."

She decided then, that she would let him have his moment of nostalgia for his lost family.

It was that easy.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).


	38. Their Sphere

I.

Elizabeth had an odd fondness for melancholy. It was peculiar, how she enjoyed its sweet, humbling ways; rather strange. What was even more curious was how readily she allowed it to sober her up, particularly in times of true joy. It was not that she was unable to experience happiness; she did. But she also understood its nature, she observed it. Instead of giving herself to it fully and living it without a second thought, Liz acknowledged the distinction between the various sensations true happiness provided and loved to memorize those moments of precious joy. She encapsulated them so that she could revisit the precise feel of them and feed her senses at a later time. Her soul was hardworking that way, much like an ant or a bee – she was storing those sensations for safekeeping. Later, when the actual moments of happiness were over, she enjoyed the sweet and humbling ways of nostalgia.

If asked, Elizabeth would answer that she was not unhappy or sad. It wouldn't be a lie. In fact, she was currently in the whirlpool of yet another state of pure joy. With Raymond. And once that overwhelming current subsided, because it was going to, she'd know how to recognize this precious sensation as a "Raymond moment". Quite strange, no doubt.

II.

They were together in her new bed. Reddington was lying on his soft stomach, with his hands underneath her pillow. It was then that she realized that the pull of premature melancholy was stronger than usual. She was not ready for their sacred sphere to feed her nostalgia. It felt good to remind herself that, above all, her sadness was indeed premature. He was there still. He seemed resolved to never part ways with her. _"Never, ever"_ in fact. It was what he had promised her a few moments prior to letting her undress him that night. It was settled then - she was going to live inside her happy sphere this time and not just observe it.

III.

She knew she'd wake him, if she glided her fingers along his bare ribcage. If she started from the side of his stomach, he'd be awake by the time she reached the side of his chest. She'd never make it past his shoulder. She did it anyway.

She hadn't even reached the side of his breast when his hand left her pillow. He laid his palm flat, right atop her heart, then curled his fingers around the back of her neck and massaged her there.

"Is everything alright, Lizzy?" he asked, straight away, not quite ready to open his eyes.

"It is. It's how it should be," she said. That made him open both eyes and erased the natural sleepiness from them. Probably because ordinarily, he was the ominous one in their unlikely pair.

"Tell me." He was ready to listen.

"It's just that this moment is passing as we speak. We'll have more of the same, I hope," she explained, looking at him pointedly, as a playful reminder he was the one likely to fuck them up. "But this moment, the one we are in now. It's going to pass. Our sphere will change." Raymond would have discovered her loyalty to melancholy sooner or later. It was not something she was planning to hide, anyway. There: now he knew.

"We'll preserve our sphere, sweetheart." No questions regarding the sphere she was speaking of. He understood. He was in it with her.

IV.

Elizabeth liked to rank her most beloved "Raymond moments". A difficult task. Still, she loved it when she was lying on her back with his body wrapped around her and his mouth on her temple, near hers; that she loved the most. _"Come here, between my legs. Yes, like that."_ She only had to give him directions once. It was not difficult to figure out she wanted his erect cock on her, pressed against her clit in the morning. So, he did what she liked, before she'd had the chance to ask him.

Because this moment was going to pass inevitably, they were going to recreate and multiply it. In their sphere.

Author's Note: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).


	39. His Last Word

I.

She could tell he'd accepted death to be his fate. She was certain because it took him around three seconds, probably four, to realize that his brain was not scattered by the bullet and that someone else had taken it instead. When he faced her, his savior, his unhinged facial expressions gave it all away - he was genuinely shocked to be alive. So surprised, and so wide-eyed; the poor soul.

She'd told him, a couple of evenings prior, that he was most probably unmatched in poker. He didn't disagree but said nothing and instead looked delightfully smug. Then again, he hadn't been kneeling, then, in dire anticipation of death. What a difference two days made…

II.

"Thank you." He was not going to relent, not really. His brows were furrowed close together like they always were when he was trying to scold her. She was not going to make him reconsider, either, because she liked it that way. That divine love of his! It was heavenly to be loved the way he loved her; truly delicious. She'd had a suspicion he might be in love with her and hoped that her gut was not leading her on. But she also loved the all-consuming spice his love had to it. It was odd, almost parental. It excited her in strange ways; sinful ways. "And never do it again."

"But I will. I rarely listen to you. Why start now?" she asked him, in an attempt to lighten the mood. The intensity inside the van was starting to overwhelm her and she found herself crying. It was too overwhelming - Reddington nearly dying, as well as his scolding and the way he smelled. Not to mention the relief of seeing him alive and forever concerned for her safety.

She wasn't lying. She was going to save his life as often as she had to. It devastated her, how little he valued his own life. It made her want to soothe him for once, to explain to him why his life was worth living. Because she needed him, the selfish little girl she sometimes was. No one could ever love her the way he loved her.

To add to her now daily frustrations, she was frightened, the selfish little girl she sometimes was, that his self-disdain would prevent him from giving himself to her fully when they were both ready for it. She didn't need his altruistic ways; not always. She wanted her cake, the selfish little girl she sometimes was, and she wanted to eat it, too.

But his love for her, this divine love, did not come with an on-and-off switch. The complexity of it was going to make it difficult for the both of them to simply be in love with one another in peace.

Liz decided to save those thoughts for more hospitable circumstances. She'd let them torture her later, of course, when her natural instinct to analyze and delve deep would get the better of her. But first, they needed to calm down, both of them, and Elizabeth in particular. Red's numerous close encounters with death had made him more resilient and more durable. He was almost lucky that way. She was not used to Reddington almost dying.

III.

She had closed her eyes in the shower stall, as the water washed off the remains of her cold sweat. She shouldn't have. She should have focused on the bland beige color of her bathroom tiles instead. She thought nothing could be more unsightly than the images that were catching up with her.

She knew that her current train of thought promised nothing but wreckage and when it finally derailed, it would unleash the most gruesome fear. It was a necessary evil. Her closed eyes provided the ideal dark canvas for her memories to manifest themselves in their brightest, most vicious nuances.

She remembered running down the narrow corridor in King's mansion. It was her second jog down that hall. The first time, she'd escorted the beautiful, pale boy she had saved to the exit and told him to run. The second time, she was disobeying Reddington, who'd told _her_ to run. The terror of nearly making it back a second too late made that corridor appear longer and narrower, never-ending. She felt like it was making her slower. She was quick enough, of course, and Reddington's every breath was the most reassuring proof.

She opened her eyes. She had survived the wreckage. But beyond her fear lurked sadness.

IV.

"Lizzy, is everything alright?" His voice was lower than usual and rougher. His speech, while not impaired, was not as perfectly coherent and brilliantly intonated as usual. She had seen him in times when he was less than sober, so she knew, almost immediately, that alcohol had nothing to do with it. Her quick deduction led her to believe he'd been sleeping. Who could blame him? It was four o'clock in the morning. _She_ could blame him. And she did.

"Your last words to me would have been, "You did what you could." If you had died. That would have been the last thing you would've said to me," she said over the phone. Her words were crisp – clear vowels carrying her sadness from her mouth to his ear.

"No, it wouldn't have. It's late, Lizzy. Get some sleep. We can talk in the morn-"

"Well, isn't that a cushy spot to be in!" she exclaimed. "You have the luxury of tomorrow. But you thought you didn't; you said nothing that would've mattered. And you thought you'd never see me again." Her voice broke slightly right at the end of her sentence. She worked hard to remain stable but failed, right at the finishing line. Her hot tears were drenching the pillowcase beneath her head, making the fabric cold and unpleasant.

She knew better than that but felt overwhelmed by sadness anyway. Reddington had wanted her to hurry along and save herself, as well as that charming boy who looked at her as if she'd gone mad when she'd told him to run on his own. There was no time for pleasantries or heartfelt declarations of love.

"You're wrong. Now go to sleep," he ordered and that made her snap.

"Prove me wrong. Right now," Liz challenged quickly; too quickly. She hoped he hadn't gathered how desperate she was for him not to hang up on her.

"Your name was the last thing I said before you came to my rescue. Go to sleep."

He hung up. Really, what more could he have said?

V.

She cried, hard and ugly, for nearly half an hour. She was loved.

Her pillow was flipped. Its other side was cool, but dry. She was loved.

Author's Note: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).


	40. She Is So Darn Insecure

**1x02 The Freelancer did feature that restaurant scene...**

* * *

I.

There were downsides to being a man's primary subject of interest, if a person's demanding ego would allow them to believe in such an unlikely conclusion. Lizzy, Elizabeth, would tell any such skeptic that yes, it was possible; no, it was no joke, nor was she trying to be unnecessarily modest.

If anyone asked why it was that she wished to avoid attention, she'd refer to the evening she was currently having.

II.

So far, Reddington's obnoxious ways could not have been a subject of her gloating or dismissal, due to what seemed to be his inborn knack for perfection. He had not failed her or her team; not yet. So, she was left with no way to ease the irritating sensation of feeling pathetically inferior to him. If anyone asked her, she would admit that yes, it was rather sad how she was trying to cure her insecurities by wanting him to show, in any way, that he was prone to mistakes, just like she was. She was like an ugly vulture – not one to capture her prey and deserve her sustenance; she was waiting for the prey to fail and die.

She had been in relatively close proximity to him way too often over the span of the past week. Proof of his unbelievable lack of flaws presented itself on silver platters and in all sorts of helpfully noticeable ways. His skin smelled good and his breath was always fresh. His shoes were always polished and very clean. Always new and in hues that complemented his suits harmonically. He cared about the way he looked, she had concluded one night in her marital bed; he paid attention to his appearance. Maybe he was vain. If anyone asked, she'd say that he was winning at everything… If one was to ignore his lost family and the necessity to never have a home to call his own. Oh, and his latest scar, she'd add with a childish smile, the round, tiny one; the one from the pen.

III.

"You could've worn sapphires or emeralds with this little dress of yours, you know. Bring a pop of colorful excitement," he informed her helpfully as they were approaching the restaurant. If anyone asked, she'd answer and say _that_ was not fair. Observations such as this conveyed interest and care. It was how one could fool a person that they cared.

It seemed like Reddington paid attention to everyone and everything, as if it all was outstanding. Thus, nothing was truly outstanding to this all-perceiving old man. She disliked the possibility of not being special to him and she became aware of the sensation straightaway. She knew what it was. If anyone asked her, she would keep her mouth shut.

But yes, sapphires would have been nice.

IV.

"Anyone asks, you're my girlfriend form Ann Arbor." She could not see his face. He was right behind her, just a voice in her ear, as they were making their way inside the restaurant. Assuming he was serious yet light-hearted about that cover was a safe guess on her part.

"And if anyone asks about how you won me over? Should I tell them you surprised me with sapphires on our first date?" she asked as she walked to their table. She did nothing to prevent him from helping her with her chair.

"Someone's hesitant about my skills at seduction. Don't be ignorant, Lizzy," he promised her – or so she hoped. If anyone asked what, exactly, that was – his lips too close to the strands of her hair and his breath nearly touching her cheek – she'd answer that yes, she wanted that to be a promise. "Or you can be my daughter," he suggested as she took her seat on the table.

 _No, I can't._

V.

He asked her to profile him. She delivered. Was he giving her a chance to prove herself? Did he hope she would surprise him? If anyone asked, she'd answer that she didn't know, either.

She spoke the truth. And yes, she took pleasure in informing him that he was alone in this world, with no true friends and no home. He did not flinch. Perhaps he was unmoved. Perhaps he could see she was unnecessarily aggressive because this is what frightened vulnerable animals did in the scary, unknown wild.

It bothered her, the possibility of being boring in his eyes. _"You think like a cop." "You do what you've been trained to do."_ She disappointed him. Had their shared past led him to believe she was in any way extraordinary? It saddened her but, in that instance, she was the bearer of bad news. She was not what he'd hoped.

If anyone asked, she'd blame the night before, when her insecure mind, that same mind that longed for approval and adoration, dreamt of Reddington fingering her. He was aggressive and was using three fingers to rub her hard and fast. She woke up and was contracting still. She wondered if his sophistication allowed him to be so quick and ruthless about deeds of the kind…

Later, as she tried to revive Floriana Campo in vain, she concluded that yes, Reddington had had his feathers ruffled years ago. He _was_ ruthless when the occasion demanded it. If anyone asked, she'd confirm it.

VI.

"Am I what you expected?" she asked him. Each of them had claimed a bench and were enjoying the sight of serenity.

"In a sense." That was all she would get. Unless she asked for more.

"In what sense, exactly?"

"You are as tenacious as I thought you'd be. A little more stubborn than I would've liked. And more aggressive." The waves of his voice had changed direction. He'd craned his neck in order to look at her. She moved her body sideways, so that she could face him while still maintaining a professional distance. He could've leaned in and their faces could have been inches away from one another. She better than that.

"You'll have a vivid reminder of that. That'll leave a scar," she told him, and pointed her finger in the general direction of his neck.

"My memory services me very well even with no physical evidence, Lizzy." The tide retracted, along with his head. She straightened her body on the bench. She did wish to be the first one to have done it. She wanted to have been the first to turn her back to him. "You surprised me today. When you let me escape. Thank you."

"Repay me with answers," she negotiated, seizing the moment immediately. "About our past."

"Be careful of your husband, Lizzy." He stood up and started walking. _I'll see him in the morning._

If anyone asked, she'd answer that yes, it was pathetic that she considered the thought of having a tomorrow with him to be a silver lining.

If anyone asked why she cared, she'd tell them to fuck off.

* * *

 **Author's note: Many thanks to my beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).**


	41. They Are Back to Ground Zero: Part 1

Set shortly before 2x02 Monarch Douglas Bank. Lizzy comes to realize she can't hide Tom forever.

* * *

I.

Elizabeth was, without a doubt, a silly woman.

She was stupidly naïve in ways that mocked her age. The acceptance of her pathetic reality was not a peaceful one. She called herself a fool many times over, almost as if she'd been scolding someone else; a foolish girl, young and immature. Only, there was no girl. Just Elizabeth. It was her fault, believing that what she'd been hiding would remain hers and hers alone.

It didn't, of course. It involved a _person_ , locked away in a rotting ship. Her wretched secret was many things – it was disgusting, wrong and futile. But it was never _just_ hers.

II.

What a hound Reddington was! Sight never betrayed him. Nothing ever escaped him. She was not going to either. It took him some time, but he caught her lying, just once. Then, he simply followed her trail of mistakes. Elizabeth could, in fact, pinpoint the precise moment he realized she'd been hiding something – something _big_.

"Is there something wrong?" he'd asked one chilly evening as he dropped her off by her dingy motel. He was taking her all in and she felt as though the spacious Mercedes had shrunk in size, just like she had, with her slumped shoulders and rigid, bouncing legs. She'd allowed for her body to be overtaken by her nerves for mere seconds and he was onto her, immediately, with no delay at all. Rationality did not have enough time to kick in, to prevent her from making another rookie mistake.

 _He knows._

He didn't. But anxiety had won, regardless. His gaze arrived at her face mere seconds before she'd had the chance to relax those eyebrow muscles, as well as her tense jaw, and before she could dispel the alarm in her eyes. Had she been given another two seconds – just _two_ – she would have pulled herself together; she would have been prepared with a comment, something predictably snide and ordinary for their interactions.

Two seconds were too much to ask.

 _Inside the trap the silly mouse goes._

"Fine. Just tired," she tried. She turned toward him then, presenting her entire face for another inspection.

 _Inside the trap the silly mouse shall stay._

"It's been a long day," he agreed and nodded, then retracted his eyes from her.

III.

The car stopped outside her motel and for the very first time, she longed to lock herself inside that boring, beige room. But she could not dash. She had to remain calm in an attempt to salvage the secret that forced her to hire a body double; that same secret that caused for her to lie to a hound.

He bid her goodnight and she was free to go. The car door was opened, then closed. Her steps to the room were measured, yet energetic. _It's cold after all. People who had nothing to hide did not walk slowly when it was cold outside._

Lying required a certain balance.

She took a deep breath, then another when she locked her room.

 _In its little room the silly mouse shall hide._

TBC

* * *

Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Meaghan M (Juulna).


	42. They Are Back to Ground Zero: Conclusion

As irrational as his anger was, he allowed himself to be engulfed by it; just for a short while. She was lying to him. _The little girl that had him in love like a fool, dared hide something from him._ His patience was playing tricks on him, just like she was. But Reddington had loved her for too long now and she simply refused to see. He was trying to be trust-worthy, to be reliable, to replace the need for any other male figure in her life. His love was enough, he was sure of it. She refused to _see_.

 _She wouldn't catch up with him._

 _But she has the right to a life, untouched by him. Who could blame her for wanting to have a little something of her own; a lover, a child, or at the very least, a secret?_ Rationality was returning to his wounded mind, persistent and with the truth in tow.

He decided to fight them both.

II.

"Can you talk?" It was a question asked tentatively, he recognized, not a trace of her usual impatience. She'd rung him and he had picked up because he had to. Berlin had kidnapped his wife. He'd sent him one of her teeth. Work was work. In the meantime, Elizabeth could hold onto her secret until she choked on it. His sometimes violent instinct to protect her tolerated no such thoughts. It wouldn't do, this rage he'd been nourishing for the past few days. There was nothing to feed it with – nothing could justify his desire to devour her, to own her. He was going to have to respect her boundaries. He was going to continue being lovesick and desperate.

Until she caught up with him.

"How can I help you, Lizzy?"

She told him about the substance they'd found on the passenger seat of the van. It smelled of roses, she'd said. It was flammable, she'd said. Then, he told her to wait, giving her no time for further questions.

III.

She was diligent, like the little mouse she was, about reminding herself that she owed Reddington nothing. Not a damn truth, she'd soothe herself. Her secret could remain hers and that was not unfair. Certainly not to him, in spite of her irrational urge to finally tell him she'd stooped so low as to have her husband locked in a disgusting cell inside a filthy ship. She wanted this burden off her chest as if all moral filth would disappear along with her admission. He was not happy with her, she could tell. But before she could start to dwell on his disappointment, she reminded herself, once more, that she owed him nothing. _Not a damn truth.  
_  
IV.

And yet, he provided her and Ressler with the exit they needed. "You can trust me," he'd told her. And yes, whenever her life was on the line, she knew she could always trust him. He was somehow possessed by the need to protect her. Strange man.

 _The little mouse was stubborn._

 _Still, not a damn truth._

V.

She had decided not to interfere with his plan to risk his life in exchange for his wife's. _Were they even divorced?_ Oh, but she failed. She was almost ready to plead.

 _The little mouse had started to shake._

"You can't hold up your end. He'll kill you." She was ready to help, to find an alternative. He was not interested.

"Wish me luck." He never gave her the chance to.

VI.

And an alternative she found. The money had been transferred and his life was saved. His and that of his wife. After all, he mattered for more reasons than she cared to count, did he not? He mattered to the FBI. Her entire job revolved around him and his goddamn riddles. However much information he was willing to give her, she devoured. He mattered because the Universe was sometimes unfair, she admitted. And all of her other secrets, the ones she wasn't aware of, were his. All he'd ever offer were half-truths. _Not a damn truth._

VII.

He had his back to her when she got to his sanctuary for the night. He was taking in the view before him and she was quick to put an end to that.

"Thank you." He was serious, not a single attempt at humor. It didn't matter. She was perpetually frustrated with him, always settling for less than what she wanted, her knowledge forever depending on his willingness to let her in. She couldn't catch up.

So, she diligently reminded him their dynamic had not changed, not a single bit. "You're an asset." "I was doing my job." Much like him, she had become rather good at supplying half-truths.

VIII.

He made his way toward her and took no time before he struck her with his earlier epiphany. She had another informant. For her safety and because he was so damn angry, jealous and desperate, he wasn't going to allow for her secret to remain hers. He wanted to snatch it away from her and somehow punish her.

"How did you know that Berlin had his money in that bank?"

 _The little mouse was trapped._

 _It couldn't make a single sound._

 _Not even a half-truth._

"... And then I realized, "No. Somebody has a secret Santa. A source." Little did he know she had more than a source. She had an estranged, chained husband whom she had deprived of all comforts. She had guilt enough to swallow her whole. She was full to the brim, just like he was. Only, he was not the one caught in a lie this time. Regardless, she refused to show remorse in front of him; his relaxed form and elegantly crossed legs didn't deserve it.

Like the little, scared mouse she was, Liz' mind ran to the sanctuary that was their work relationship. And she kept probing and pushing. About Kaja, about the accounts. Anything that would conceal her shame for a little while longer.

"A sizeable contribution to her pension. In exchange for protecting you and your friends." She ventured scraping to accuse of something, anything. Any dishonesty would do. Anything that will grant her the pathetic victory of having the last word.

"Don't be absurd, Lizzy. I don't have any friends."

The victory was his.

VIV.

It was when she finally broke down and gave up on her secret that she felt lighter, even though she shouldn't have. Her life was the most disgusting of messes but his scent seemed to have cleared her mind. It had erased her distaste for her deeds. Her tears were wetting his neck and the pristine collar of his shirt.

"There's nothing wrong with you."

 _She'll catch up,_ he thought.


End file.
